ANGST
by Michmak
Summary: Nick is angry and no one knows why. What’s going on with everyone’s favorite Texas boyscout? Only he knows for sure, and he’s not saying. A rough case only complicates matters.
1. ANGST

Title: Angst  
  
Author: Michmak  
  
Summary: Nick is angry and no one knows why. What's going on with everyone's favorite Texas boy-scout? Only he knows for sure, and he's not saying. A rough case only complicates matters.  
  
Disclaimers: If Nick were mine, I wouldn't be putting him through all this. But he's not. Neither are any of the other characters whose names you recognize.  
  
This story contains swearing - lots of it. So be warned.  
  
___________________________________  
  
Nick was not a happy camper. Not today, at any rate. His brief, fitful sleep had been interrupted by his mother calling him and demanding he return home for Thanksgiving.  
  
As if that was going to happen.  
  
Of course, the fact that Thanksgiving was still three months away meant nothing to her. She was starting to work on him early this year, and Nick was not looking forward to three months of guilt.  
  
His mother didn't seem to understand that Nick had a full-time job, in a different state. A job he enjoyed. A job that he couldn't just ditch for some of his mom's turkey any time he felt like it. Of course, that didn't prevent her from calling him and begging him to come home for Thanksgiving. Unh-unh. And when that hadn't seemed to work, she had enlisted his sisters. One by one, throughout the rest of the few hours normally reserved for sleep, they had called - cajoling, wheedling, threatening - playing the guilt card and trying to get him to commit to going home for the holidays.  
  
It's not that Nick didn't want to see his family. It's just that he didn't want to go home for Thanksgiving. He had gone home last year - taken four days off and flown to Texas, and he just couldn't do it again this year. For one thing, it was someone else's turn to have those days - perhaps Sanders or Sidle, who also had family out of state. For another, the thought of four days of his mother and sisters badgering him about settling down, getting married and starting a family - after he moved back to Texas, of course - was just too much to bear. His brother Vic would just have to go it alone this year. Poor bastard.  
  
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Nick sighed in frustration. God, he was tired.  
  
It didn't help matters that the first person he ran into at work was Ecklie. Smarmy bastard. Nick really detested that man. Ecklie had smirked at him when Nick had dragged his sorry ass into the break room.  
  
"You look like hell, Stokes," Ecklie had offered.  
  
Nick had just grunted at him, "Trying to blend in with the rest of you." He should have kept his mouth shut. The last thing he wanted was to get in a pissing war with the day shift supervisor, but he was tired and he wasn't thinking straight. The words popped out before he could call them back. Ecklie hadn't responded, but if the angry glint in his eye was any indication, Nick would probably have some 'splaining to do later on - and thank you very much Ricky Ricardo.  
  
The coffee in the percolator was burnt, but Nick drank it anyway - black and potent. The hot liquid scalded his throat as he slugged it back, making his eyes water. The pungent taste of burnt dark roast coated his palette, making him gag slightly. He'd be tasting that one cup of coffee all night long.  
  
Greg clumped into the break room moments after he did, arching an eyebrow at him when he took in Nick's unshaven face, his smile slightly teasing. "You doing that to your face on purpose?"  
  
Nick frowned at him and ran a hand over his chin, feeling the rough stubble under his palm. "You doing that to your hair on purpose?" His response was biting; his tone way harsher than it should have been. He realized this when he saw the younger man flinch, but he didn't try to apologize. Catherine, who had entered the lounge on Greg's heels and caught the entire exchange, had the good sense to keep her mouth shut for a change. Nick saluted her grimly with his coffee cup and slid into an empty seat.  
  
He's only been there ten minutes, and he already wanted the shift to end. Closing his eyes, he leaned back in his chair and tried to relax. His body ached. Maybe he was getting sick. Come to think of it, he was chilled too. He wondered idly if he had a fever, and if the sudden tickle in the back of his throat was a sign of illness or simply psychosomatic. He cleared his throat loudly.  
  
Down the hallway, he could hear Sara. Normally, he found the slightly atonal, smoky flavor of her voice appealing, but tonight - for whatever reason - the sound of it drifting into the lounge room bothered him. She sounded annoyingly perky, like she had gotten a good sleep. If he was in a better frame of mind, he might even have briefly entertained the thought that maybe she sounded so happy because she had finally gotten laid, but he knew that hadn't happened. As far as he knew, Grissom hadn't suddenly developed ESP - especially not where Sara was concerned - and Nick could think of no one else Sara would even consider sleeping with. *That big wanker, Hank?* Nick snorted under his breath, *not unless hell froze over and Satan decided to start a snowball fight with JC himself.*  
  
Nick wondered idly what it would take to get Grissom to open up his fucking eyes and see what was so obvious to everyone else on the night shift - except maybe Greg, and he didn't count because he was delusional half the time anyway.  
  
"How can you say that Crosby, Stills and Nash were better off without Young?" Grissom's tone was slightly incredulous. "He made that group!"  
  
"You ever listen to him sing, Griss?" Sara retorted, tone light, "He voice is like sandpaper. At least the other three could harmonize."  
  
Nick opened an eye and glared balefully at them as they walked in, Warrick ambling behind at an easy gait, looking relaxed and calm - as always. He slid into the empty seat beside Catherine, and Nick snorted again. If those two thought the smoldering looks they threw at each were unnoticeable, they were severely mistaken.  
  
Warrick looked up at Nick's snort, taking in his friends' disreputable appearance. Nick looked haggard. The laugh lines bracketing his mouth were unusually pronounced this evening, deep groves in a pallid face pointing - like exclamation marks - to the dark circles under his eyes. He opened his mouth, about to ask Nick if he was feeling alright, but stopped at the venomous look Nick shot him.  
  
"Don't say it."  
  
Warrick shrugged and wisely kept his mouth shut. Nick looked like a man on the edge of a nervous breakdown this evening.  
  
Of course, just because Warrick was smart didn't mean that Sara was. Propping her hip against the table beside him she took in his rough appearance and grinned. "Rough day, Nicky? You look like something the cat dragged in."  
  
"After he regurgitated on that god-awful shirt you're wearing, Sara," Nick responded. He smiled at her tightly, before turning to Grissom. "Can we just get on with this, please?"  
  
Of course, Nick's foul mood seemed to have flown right over Grissom's head. He merely glanced at Nick and nodded absently. Nick couldn't decide whether he was happy Grissom hadn't questioned him as everyone else had, or offended that his mental and physical well-being meant so little to his boss that he wasn't even noticed. Deciding the latter emotions were more appropriate, Nick glowered at the older man.  
  
"Sara, Warrick and Catherine - you guys have an apparent homicide/suicide at 1823 Flamingo. Brass is already there waiting for you. Nick, you're with me."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Nick fell asleep in the Tahoe on the drive to the crime scene, waking with a start when the vehicle jerked to a stop. Groaning, he opened up his eyes and winced against the bright light stabbing through them in the interior of the cab. Grissom had opened up his door. Nick swore lightly and blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the flash spots floating in his vision. Mumbling about inconsiderate people, Nick reached into the back of the Tahoe and grabbed his field kit.  
  
Grissom was patiently waiting for Nick to join him before they headed towards Det. Lockwood. Nick drew in a harsh breath as he took in his surroundings - a children's park. The swings creaked eerily in the chill night air, and the whole playground was bathed in the muted light provided by the full moon.  
  
Several police officers had taped off the crime scene and Nick tried to school his face into an appropriately stoic mask. He had a feeling this was going to be a bad one. The feeling was not dispelled when Lockwood nodded at them grimly. "We've cordoned everything off. It's not pretty."  
  
Grissom nodded like he knew what Lockwood was talking about, but Nick looked around blankly. Had Grissom told him on the drive over about the crime? He couldn't recall. Lockwood was pointing towards a big plastic crawl tube. "He's in there."  
  
"Coroner get a look at him yet?" Grissom asked.  
  
"Only enough to say he's dead. We thought you guys might want to take pictures, check things over, before we pull the kid out."  
  
They had reached the opening of the tube, all three hunching down to gaze inside. Grissom and Nick shone their maglites in the opening, illuminating the small body inside. Nick choked back a series of epitaphs that had risen immediately in his throat, thickly swallowing back bile and stumbling involuntarily backwards, averting his eyes from the tubing. Grissom shot a look at him over his shoulder, eyes grim.  
  
"You okay, Nicky?"  
  
"Fine," he managed to grate out. "Any idea who he is?"  
  
Lockwood shook his head. "I've got men out canvassing the neighborhood now; trying to find out if anyone is missing their son."  
  
Grissom leaned forward into the tubing slightly, his bulk blocking the tube opening. "Nicky - you're smaller than me. Think you can take the pictures?"  
  
"Sure, Grissom," Nick growled back, "Done it before." Grabbing the camera, he waited impatiently for Grissom to get out of the way, and began snapping photos. After getting a few shots from the exterior, he slid to his knees and crawled partway into the tube. The coppery smell of blood was so strong, Nick could taste it. He snapped a few more photos before backing out of the crawl space and looking at Grissom.  
  
"I'll go in from the other side, take pictures from the feet up."  
  
Grissom nodded silently, looking at the younger CSI with something akin to concern in his eyes. "You sure you're okay, Nick? You're looking a little - green."  
  
Nick just shrugged and plastered a cool smile on his face. "All systems go - thanks for asking. I'm fan-fucking-tastic!"  
  
* * * * *  
  
Grissom was talking to David the Coroner when Nick reemerged from the crawl space. He had cut the side of his arm on a screw that had been jutting out the side of the tubing, and had ripped a nice piece of skin away from it. It hurt like a son of a bitch, and Nick was cursing his stupidity. He would need tetanus shot for sure, and he had managed to contaminate the crime scene.  
  
Grissom looked at him in concern when the younger man walked over to him, holding his forearm tightly and trying to staunch the bleeding. The camera hung heavily from his neck, bouncing against his chest as he walked.  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"Goddamn screw-head," Nick muttered. "Ripped my arm open on it. Managed to bleed in the crawl space."  
  
"How close to the body?"  
  
"About 10 feet," Nick replied. *And I think I might need stitches, thanks for asking.*  
  
Grissom's studied Nick grimly for a second, noting the tense set of his shoulders, and the blotchy green and white dappling of the skin around his mouth. "Let me see your arm."  
  
Nick shrugged and removed his hand, revealing a nasty gash running from just below his elbow almost all the way to his wrist on the outside of his arm. David, standing beside Grissom, sucked in his breath. "That looks bad."  
  
"No kidding," Nick ground out. "It feels worse, believe me. We got a first aid kit in the Tahoe?"  
  
When Grissom nodded, Nick smiled. "Think I'll head over there then and patch myself up."  
  
"I'll come with you." Grissom turned and waived Lockwood over. "We got our pictures. Can you get a couple of men to help remove the body for David here to look at? Nick hurt his arm."  
  
Nick was already at the Tahoe, standing at the back hatch impatiently, when Grissom caught up with him. "I think you need to go and have that looked at Nicky," Grissom looked at the gash closely, gingerly picking dirt out of it, before grabbing a sterile wet wipe and cleaning away the blood. Nick's arm was still bleeding heavily, and the younger man's jeans were stained a deep brown; his shirt wrecked.  
  
"After shift, maybe," Nick agreed, wincing as Grissom cleaned the wound. "Will you be careful? For a doctor, your bedside manner sucks."  
  
Grissom merely raised an eyebrow at him, brushing aside Nick's brusqueness. "I'm a bug doctor, Nick. And cockroaches don't bleed."  
  
The two men stood in silence for a few minutes as Grissom applied butterfly bandages to the widest parts of the gash, before wrapping Nick's arm tightly in gauze. Reaching into the first aid kit, he pulled out two extra strength Advil's and handed them to Nick. "You're going to need these."  
  
Nick just grunted, tossing them into his mouth and dry swallowing. His arm felt like it was on fire. Glaring angrily at the bandage, he barely managed to thank Grissom for his medical attention before he stalked back to the crawl tubes. The boy had been removed, his body gingerly stretched out on a piece of tarp. To the side, a couple of EMTs stood silently watching David examine the body. Nick felt his eyes burning.  
  
The child was probably no older than nine or ten. His hair was so matted with blood it was hard to determine color, but Nick had a sneaking suspicion it was light brown. He had very obviously been beaten to death - it looked like he had been flayed. Bloodied stripes of skin covered the boys' chest and genitals; there had been no clothes found with the body. Every inch of skin had been marred in some fashion - only his face remained unscathed - if you discounted the rictus of pain and horror frozen in his features. Nick had noticed earlier that the child's eyes were still open, and he found himself looking at them again. No one had bothered to shut the lids yet, and Nick could see the layer of dirt that now caked the orbs - probably dislodged from the tube when the body had been removed. They were brown, like his own. Vaguely accusing as they stared sightlessly back at Nick, as if to say *Where were you guys when I needed you.*  
  
Slipping on some latex gloves, Nick crouched down beside the child and gently covered the accusing eyes with his palm, manipulating the lids down. Angrily, he turned his head into his shoulder, sweeping at the moistness in his eyes helplessly. *I'm sorry, buddy. I'm so sorry.*  
  
* * * * *  
  
"We've got a name," Lockwood's voice made Nick start guiltily. He had moved back to stand beside Grissom as David worked, ignoring the questioning glances Grissom kept sliding his way, ignoring the burning in his eyes which was somehow worse than the throbbing in his arm. Lockwood was holding a bloodied knapsack.  
  
"One of my guys found this in the piping when they removed the body."  
  
"And he fucking moved it? Did he at least take pictures of it before he tampered with the crime scene?" Nick bit out. Grissom looked equally as upset as Nick, and the two men waited for Lockwood to answer.  
  
"No - he's a rookie. First case like this. He didn't think. He can show you where it was, though."  
  
"Fuck a duck," Nick spat. "Where the hell is this asshole? I'll go in and see what I can find, Grissom."  
  
"You okay to crawl around with that arm, Nick?"  
  
"Peachy keen. Where's numnuts?"  
  
Lockwood frowned at Nick slightly and waved a young cop over. The kid looked like he's just stepped out of the academy; his uniform crisp, his leather work shoes uncreased, face scrubbed fresh as a new penny. Nick shook his head in disgust, before turning back to Lockwood.  
  
"You said you had a name?" When Lockwood nodded, Nick ground out, "Well?"  
  
"It's written in his knapsack. Kid's name was Nick Steeply. He lives a few blocks from here."  
  
Nick felt his heart twist painfully in his chest as he looked at the boy again. "Nick. Figures. Fucking name is cursed."  
  
________________  
  
Author's Note:  
  
Angsty!Nick is back. Thanks to Saryn, who gave me the idea for this piece when she asked me to have Nick go into work angry and snap at everyone. I know she probably wanted something funnier, but this is what I'm writing. It will be a short story - two/three chapters max. Why is Nick so angry? What's going on? 


	2. IN HARMS WAY

IN HARMS WAY  
  
Nick Steeply lived in a large house in an upper-class subdivision in Las Vegas. Nick whistled under his breath as they pulled into the driveway, loathing on sight the perfect landscaping, the green grass and the lonely Volvo sitting in one-third of the open garage. The outdoor lights were blazing, as were a myriad of lights inside the house. Someone was up.  
  
Grissom had made him change into a blue forensics jumpsuit, citing the stains on his jeans and t-shirt as the main reason. Nick knew the suggestion had held merit - his jeans had been stiff with blood; his t- shirt ruined - Nick would have changed eventually on his own anyways. However, after crawling around after Officer Dickwad in the crawl space to examine the area where the knapsack had been found, the last thing Nick had needed was Grissom telling him to change.  
  
"I don't want the victims' parents seeing all that blood on you. They'll think it belongs to their son."  
  
Nick had flashed his teeth at Grissom in some semblance of a smile, biting back the harsh words that had risen - hot and thick - in his throat. When would Grissom realize that he wasn't a complete fucking idiot? That he understood about human suffering - more so than Grissom did or could ever hope to? Nick wasn't the insensitive one on the team; the one who never noticed anyone else. He was the PEOPLE PERSON. Which meant, he UNDERSTOOD people. Unlike Grissom. Standing behind the open doors of the coroner's van as he changed, Nick had imagined telling Grissom this. As he slid out of his stiff jeans, he had smiled grimly as rolled the words around in his mouth. How sweet would it be to tell Grissom to just Fuck Off, already, and give him some damned CREDIT? If Nick hadn't been so pissed off, imagining the look on Grissom's face would have made him smile.  
  
And now, here he sat. Grissom was beside him, driving the Tahoe, and they were pulling to a stop in front of a house that easily cost more than Nick would ever earn in his entire life. The forensics jumpsuit was itchy against his bare skin, burning like the acid eating a hole through Nick's stomach. While he had been crawling around through the tubing, Detective Lockwood had called in to dispatch to see if there had been any calls regarding the kid - regarding Nick Steeply. Had anyone reported him missing? Surprisingly - or not - no one had. So Grissom had sent David back with the body to the morgue, and he and Nick had climbed into the Tahoe and followed Lockwood to the vic's house.  
  
Nick had looked at his watch when the pulled into the driveway. 1:30 in the fucking am. Do you know where your children are?  
  
Standing uncomfortably on the front doorstep, he wished idly that he smoked. It would give him something to do with his hands. Right now, they were clenching and unclenching into fists. He had somehow managed to force the anger he had been feeling since before shift began down into the pit of his belly, but he could feel it gibbering - like some irrational beast - deep in the very marrow of his bones. Grissom rang the doorbell.  
  
"Nicky - you little shit - I swear to God, if that's you, you better have a good reason for not coming home at 10:00, like I told you -" Nick cocked an eyebrow at Grissom, frowning at the strident tones coming from behind the front door before it was flung open. A young girl stood there - she couldn't have been much more than sixteen - the flashing anger in her eyes quickly replaced by shock and then a strange sick look of dread as she took in the three men standing in the entrance.  
  
Lockwood stepped forward slightly. "Hello. I'm Detective Lockwood. These are my colleagues, Mr. Grissom and Mr. Stokes, with the Las Vegas Forensics lab. Are your parents' home?"  
  
The girl stood mutely, eyes darting from Lockwood to Grissom to Nick, and back again. Breathing in shakily, she shook her head. "I don't live here. I'm the babysitter. Mr. and Mrs. Steeply are away for three days on business. Why - what - what do you want?"  
  
"How old are you?" Nick growled. His eyes were obsidian, shining darkly in the shadows of the front entrance. His jaw was clenched so tightly it actually hurt. Grissom reached out a hand and lightly touched Nick's arm. *Down, boy.* Nick glared at him.  
  
"May we come in?" Grissom asked, although it wasn't really a question. Stepping into the large foyer, Nick kept his eyes glued to the girl. She was a skinny little thing. At this very moment, she looked like she wanted to vomit all over the Italian marble tile.  
  
"Do you have a number we could reach Mr. and Mrs. Steeply at?" Grissom's voice was calm; which only served to put Nick more on edge. To the left of Grissom, Lockwood surreptitiously scanned the interior of the foyer.  
  
"I - I - yes, of course I do. They're in Washington, D.C. Is this about Nicky? Do you know where he is?"  
  
"We're not sure yet," Grissom responded gently. "Do you know if there's a picture of him we could look at?"  
  
The girl looked at Grissom in horror for a minute, before nodding dumbly and turning towards the kitchen, the three men following her. Walking over to the large fridge, she retrieved a magnet and handed it silently to Grissom. The older man studied it intently for a moment before passing it to Nick. The little boy on the magnet looked so alive, it was almost obscene. Standing proudly in a little league uniform, an oversized catcher's mitt on his hand, Nick Steeply smiled up at him. Nick rubbed his thumb gently over the finish and closed his eyes briefly for a second, before handing the magnet to Lockwood.  
  
The babysitter remained silent, shifting anxiously from foot to foot, re- distributing her slight weight over and over again. The silence - though it lasted mere seconds - was unbearable and fraught with agony. "Where's Nicky?" she finally blurted. Her voice was squeaky with fear, her skin suddenly so pale it was almost translucent.  
  
Grissom's voice was unbearably gentle when he responded, "I'm sorry, but he's dead."  
  
* * * * * *  
  
Lockwood was on his cell-phone, talking to Brass. Nick was barely aware of the conversation, knowing only that they were making arrangements to get the Washington PD to locate and inform Nick Steeply's parents of their son's murder. The babysitter - whose name - they had finally learned - was Jenny, sat dumbly in a chair at the kitchen table. Her face was shattered.  
  
"When was the last time you saw Nick?" Grissom was asking her. Every time Grissom or Lockwood mentioned the victims' name, Nick himself would start. He could almost believe it was him they were talking about, and it made him feel inexplicably sad. Nick didn't know where the sadness began and the anger ended, but both emotions were there now, roiling around inside him.  
  
"I saw him at 8:00. He went out." Jenny's voice was expressionless.  
  
"What's a what - nine year old boy doing going out at 8:00 in the evening?" Nick managed to ask.  
  
Jenny shrugged, "He just - went out. I told him to be back by 10:00; no later."  
  
"Did he go out with anyone? Was he meeting anyone?" Grissom interrupted. The girl shook her head.  
  
"I don't know. I don't know." Suddenly, she was crying again, "Can I call my dad, please?"  
  
Lockwood had stepped back to the table. "Brass told me to tell you he's headed back with everyone else to the lab. He's going to arrange for the Steeply's to be notified." He looked at Jenny, "What's your number. I'll call your dad."  
  
Jenny rattled it off shakily, before turning to look at Nick. "I didn't want this to happen," she offered brokenly, "I didn't know this would happen."  
  
Nick kept his expression blank as he studied her, "Why did Nicky leave the house at 8:00?"  
  
"I asked him to. I told him to go sit in the back yard, or go to the park or something. My boyfriend was here, and -"  
  
"And." Nick sighed in disgust. "You kicked a little kid out of his own house so you and your boyfriend could fuck each other."  
  
Jenny flinched backwards and, if possible, turned whiter at Nick's blunt statement. Grissom looked like he was about to say something, but Nick just ignored him. "It was your responsibility to keep him safe, and you sent him out. If you'd been doing your job, he'd still be alive."  
  
Jenny started crying, and Nick smiled at her viciously, "It's your fault he died."  
  
"That's enough." Grissom's voice was steely, his eyes icy, as he glared at Nick. Nick glared right back at him. "Don't say another word."  
  
Nick slouched back into his seat, "Whatever you say, Grissom."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Robbins had just dictated his preliminary report on Nick Steeply when Grissom and Nick arrived at the morgue. Jenny and her father had come back to the station with Lockwood. Nick Steeply's parents had been notified of their son's death and were frantically trying to get a flight home.  
  
Nick had hardly spoken two words to Grissom since their exchange back at the Steeply's kitchen. The air between the two men practically crackled with tension and anger, winding Nick tighter and tighter with each passing second. *Grissom better say something to me soon,* Nick thought, *or else I'm going to snap.*  
  
Robbins looked up from his dictation when the two men entered the morgue, expression grim. "I'm just finishing up dictating my preliminary report."  
  
"And?" Grissom demanded.  
  
Robbins shrugged. "He choked to death on his own vomit." Sighing, he approached the still form of the little boy and lifted the sheet. "He probably would have bled out from the cuts, but that's not what killed him."  
  
Nick stepped forward and looked at the boy's face, trying not to picture the happy grin from the picture on the magnet. "What else happened to him?"  
  
"He was sexually assaulted. Doesn't look like he suffered from recurring assaults - there is no old scarring. He was whipped with - something - which stripped large swatches of skin off him. Genitals were mutilated."  
  
Robbins paused, clearing his throat, before continuing. "I found several trace amounts of bark in the whip marks, so I'm thinking he was switched with a branch. Also, I found - bark and unknown fibers within the anal cavity. Hairs on the body that aren't his. I've got it all here, ready to go to trace for analysis."  
  
Nick hadn't moved from the head of the autopsy table. The room was spinning around him, his heart pounding as he listened to Robbins detail the injuries done to the boy. His breath tasted sour, and his eyes were burning from the pressure of unshed tears. He realized that Robbins had stopped talking, and he looked up to see the two other men looking at him.  
  
"You alright, Nick?" Robbins asked. Nick blinked at him, before turning his gaze to Grissom, who was standing at the foot of the table and looking at him with something akin to concern.  
  
"Nick?"  
  
Nick felt like he was in a wind-tunnel. The bright fluorescent lighting seared his eyes and he shut them against the stabbing pain, feeling a weird sense of vertigo overtake him.  
  
"Nick?" Grissom's voice again, coming at him mutely, barely discernable as a voice behind the rolling thunder of his blood pounding through his veins. Risking a second brief glance at his boss and mentor, Nick managed to gasp out an angry "Fuck!" before rushing over to the large stainless steel sink at the side of the autopsy room, and vomiting the contents of his stomach.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Of course, Grissom had made him go home. At first, Nick had refused, but Grissom had been insistent. Handing Nick a wet paper towel to wipe his mouth with, he had taken Nick by the arm and gently led him down to his office.  
  
"Are you alright, Nick?" His voice had been calm. Any of the anger he had been feeling towards his young colleague from earlier had disappeared when he had watched Nick heave the entire contents of his stomach in the morgue.  
  
Nick had refused to look at him. Instead he had replied thickly, "I think I'm getting the flu." He had slid into an empty seat in Grissom's office as he said this, smiling weakly when Grissom handed him a bottle of water that had been sitting - unopened - on his desk.  
  
The anger that had fueled him for the majority of the day was no longer there. Instead, Nick just felt empty. A husk, or a shell. He couldn't decide which. He just wanted to curl up into a little ball and go to sleep and never wake up. His lungs hurt.  
  
Grissom sat in the chair across from him, reaching out and tentatively touching Nick's knee. Nick flinched backwards at the contact, pushing the chair backwards about five inches across the floor.  
  
"Nick, what's going on?"  
  
"Nothing. Nothing. I just - I'm getting sick. I thought I was getting sick earlier this evening, and I was right." The answer sounded weak, even to his own ears, so he pasted on a patently false grin and tried to reassure Grissom that way. "I haven't thrown up like that since - I don't know when."  
  
"Are you sure that's all it is? You're not acting like yourself. You've been angry all night."  
  
Nick sighed at Grissom's words, "I'm just tired, Grissom. I can't be happy all the time."  
  
"No one expects you to be," Grissom responded, "but no one expects you to accuse a young girl of causing a death, either."  
  
Nick winced, and felt the anger he thought was gone flicker to life once again. "Don't start," he warned. "It IS her fault the boy is dead. She was supposed to watch over him; keep him safe from harm - and she failed. She placed him in harms way. And what about his parents? What type of people leave a nine year old in the care of a 16 year old girl for three days while they go away on business?' Nick felt his voice rising, but he didn't care. "When did parents abdicate all common sense when it comes to protecting their children? Who's supposed to protect kids from stuff like this?"  
  
Grissom just shook his head, "I don't know, Nick. I just don't know. But I do know this - you're going home. You need to get out of here and clear your head, get some sleep. So go home."  
  
"What about the case?"  
  
"As of right now, you're off the case," Grissom responded. "You're too involved."  
  
Nick pushed himself out of the chair, expression grim and eyes broken and shuttered. "Off the case. That's just great. Why is it that Catherine gets to work on cases she gets emotionally involved in all the time? Sara as well? Is it because they're women and can get away with it?"  
  
Before Grissom could phrase a response, Nick growled, "Forget it. Just forget it. You want me to go home? Fine. I'm going. Maybe I'll be in for shift tomorrow. But then again, maybe not."  
  
______________________  
  
Author's Notes: thanks for the review for the first chapter - I really appreciate all of them! I hope you all continue to enjoy this story - next part: Nick is confronted by Catherine. More angst. 


	3. HOLLOW MAN

HOLLOW MAN  
  
Catherine and Sara looked up from the break room when Nick went gusting down the hallway. They had heard the slam of Grissom's office door; looking up in time to see Nick rush by. He was so tense; Catherine could have sworn she saw electricity crackling off him.  
  
Sara looked at Catherine, "What's up with him tonight?"  
  
Catherine sighed, "I don't know."  
  
Grissom chose that moment to enter the lounge, expression shuttered as he looked at the two women. "So, anything interesting on your case?"  
  
Catherine looked at him suspiciously, "We can talk about our case in a few minutes. What did you do to Nick?"  
  
Pouring himself a coffee, Grissom shrugged. "I didn't do anything to him. He did it to himself."  
  
"What the hell are you talking about?" Catherine demanded.  
  
"I took him off the case. He's getting too involved. I told him to go home."  
  
"You've only just caught this case. It hasn't eve been six hours yet." Sara kept her voice neutral, but her eyes spoke of her concern. "It's not like Nick to get overly involved."  
  
Catherine looked at her fingernails, "Tell me about the case."  
  
Grissom sighed and slid into an empty seat, propping his arms on the table top. "Nine-year-old boy was sexually assaulted and murdered. His body was dumped in a crawl space at a playground. Parents are away on business for three days, left him with a sixteen year old babysitter, who kicked the kid out of the house at 8:00 this evening in order to spend some time with her boyfriend."  
  
Catherine's face was a mask of shock, "What type of parents leave their son with a teenage babysitter for three days?"  
  
"Exactly what Nick said," Grissom replied. "He also told the babysitter to her face she was responsible for the victims' death."  
  
"She is," Catherine retorted, "She's culpable."  
  
Grissom shrugged, "Be that as it may, he shouldn't have said anything to her. He's supposed to remain objective, and he lost it. I've never seen him so angry. He's too tightly wound to handle this case."  
  
Sara, who had been sitting silently listening to Grissom, ran a slim hand through her hair. "Poor Nick."  
  
Catherine rose to her feet and grabbed her jacket, "I'm gonna see if I can catch him. Sara can fill you in, Griss. I'll be back."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Nick was sitting in his truck in the parking lot when Catherine exited the building. Just sitting there. The engine was idling, and his head was thrown back against the head rest, eyes tightly clenched. The tendons in his neck stood out tightly against the column of his throat. Catherine could hear the raucous music blaring on the radio from 50 feet away.  
  
~ Cut my life into pieces  
  
This is my last resort  
  
Suffocation  
  
No breathing  
  
Don't give a fuck if I cut my arm bleeding  
  
This is my last resort  
  
Do you even care if I die bleeding  
  
Would it be wrong?  
  
Would it be right?  
  
If I took my life tonight  
  
Chances are that I might  
  
Mutilation outta sight  
  
And I'm contemplating suicide  
  
Cause I'm losing my sight  
  
Losing my mind  
  
Wish somebody would tell me I'm fine  
  
Losing my sight  
  
Losing my mind  
  
Wish somebody would tell me I'm fine  
  
I never realized I was spread too thin  
  
To live was too late  
  
And I was empty within  
  
Feeding on chaos  
  
And living in sin  
  
Downward spiral where do I begin?  
  
It all started when I lost my mother  
  
No love for myself  
  
And no love for another  
  
Searching to find a love up on a higher level  
  
Finding nothing but questions and devils ~  
  
Catherine tapped loudly on the glass, not sure if Nick would even be able to hear it over the music. Even with his windows rolled up, she could feel the vibration from the bass beat all the way through her body. She tapped again, louder this time, her knuckles making a sharp thwacking noise. Nick slit open an eye and looked at her, before frowning and rolling down his window.  
  
Catherine stepped back from the noise and winced. "Can you turn that down?" she hollered. Nick frowned at her, but did as she asked. When she could speak in a more normal tone, she smiled at him, "I'm surprised you didn't pop an eardrum. That's not your normal country music. Greg subverting you to the dark side?"  
  
Nick just looked at her stonily, "What do you want, Cath?"  
  
"Griss told us he took you off the case. You okay?"  
  
"Peachy-keen," Nick muttered. "If that's all, I should get going. I have the rest of the night off, doncha' know."  
  
"Nick," Catherine leaned through the open window and placed a hand gently on his shoulder, "does this have anything to do with - you know." Nick closed his eyes tightly against her tenderness and concern, willing down the fresh rush of tears.  
  
"Not at all," he replied. His voice was like sandpaper. "I don't want to talk about it."  
  
"You've been angry since shift started. What's going on, Nicky. Tell me."  
  
Nick just shook his head angrily, "Christ. I'm just having a bad night, okay. Nothing sinister. Nothing bad. Everyone else is allowed to have them - why not me? I'm not some fucking boy scout, you know." His sudden bitterness took Catherine by surprise. She blinked when he jerked his shoulder away from her hand and revved his motor. "I'd step back if I were you. Wouldn't want to drive over your toes."  
  
* * * * *  
  
It felt good to peel rubber out of the parking lot. Probably not the smartest thing he had ever done - after all, the place was crawling with cops, but nonetheless. Nick smiled grimly as the harsh smell of burnt rubber hit his nostrils. He did not want to go home.  
  
Turning on his stereo, he flipped past the Papa Roach song he had been listening to earlier, and turned up Korn full blast. Catherine was right - this sure as hell wasn't country music!  
  
~ Hey, I'm feeling tired.  
  
My time, is gone today.  
  
You flew with suicide.  
  
Sometimes, that's ok.  
  
Hear what others say.  
  
I'm here, standing hollow.  
  
Falling away from me.  
  
Falling away from me.  
  
Day, is here fading.  
  
That's when, I would say.  
  
I flew with suicide.  
  
Sometimes kill the pain.  
  
I can always say.  
  
'It's gonna be better tomorrow'.  
  
Falling away from me.  
  
Falling away from me.  
  
Beating me down.  
  
Beating me, beating me.  
  
Down, down.  
  
Into the ground.  
  
Screaming so sad.  
  
Beating me, beating me.  
  
Down, down.  
  
Into the ground. ~  
  
Nick grin was sharper than broken glass and twice as painful. Nodding his head in time to the music, he tapped his fingers rhythmically on his steering wheel, deciding that Korn was great to listen to when you were pissed off.  
  
The bright lights of the strip beckoned him, glittering like false hope against the inky blackness of the sky. When he had first come here, he had imagined he would be able to make a difference. Somehow, someway, he would become the type of person he had always wanted to be. His mother had always told him that God never gave anyone a burden so heavy it would break them, and Nick had always believed it. But not anymore. Christ. He needed a drink.  
  
~ (falling away from me).  
  
It's spinning round and round.  
  
(falling away from me).  
  
It's lost and can't be found.  
  
(falling away from me).  
  
It's spinning round and round.  
  
(falling away from me).  
  
So down.  
  
Beating me down.  
  
Beating me, beating me.  
  
Down, down.  
  
Into the ground.  
  
Screaming so sad.  
  
Beating me, beating me.  
  
Down, down.  
  
Into the ground.  
  
Pressing me, they won't go away.  
  
So I pray, go away.  
  
It's falling away from me.  
  
Beating me down.  
  
Beating me, beating me.  
  
Down, down.  
  
Into the ground.  
  
Screaming so sad.  
  
Beating me, beating me.  
  
Down, down.  
  
Into the ground. ~  
  
* * * * *  
  
The ringing of Greg's cell phone jerked him from his thoughts. He had been running DNA for Grissom, and had found himself oddly hypnotized by the soft hum of the machine. Grabbing his phone, he flipped it open.  
  
"Y'ello? Hey dude, what's up? No - I'm at work," Greg shrugged his shoulders, trying to loosen them up. "He's what? No. No - don't do that. I'll come. I'll come right now." Clicking his phone shut, he ran his hand through his hair in agitation and went in search of Warrick.  
  
Warrick was in A/V talking to Archie. Greg grinned despite his worry when he saw the two men were watching Die Hard. "Yippeeio-ky-ay!" he whistled under his breath. Warrick shot an amused look at him.  
  
"Greggo! Coming to join us? Or are you still running Grissom's DNA?"  
  
"Tests still running, but I need to talk to you. I think I might need your help with something." He smiled weakly at Archie, "Sorry Arch."  
  
Warrick stood and walked to Greg's side, noting with concern the worry Greg was trying to hide. "What's up?"  
  
"Listen. Nick's in trouble. A friend of mine - Ray - just called me - Nick's at the Jupiter Club, and he's drunk. Really drunk."  
  
Warrick frowned, "Doesn't sound like Nick."  
  
Greg nodded miserably, "A group of us went there a couple of nights ago to play some pool, and I talked Nick into joining us. My buddy who called - he works there, and he recognized Nick. He says Nick needs to go home before something happens, and Nick is refusing to leave."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"He pissed off some biker dude a while ago. They kicked dude out of the bar, but my friend thinks he may be waiting for Nick to leave. He threatened to beat the crap out of him," Greg added. "Ray says the guy is pretty damn big."  
  
"Shit." Warrick rolled his eyes. "Okay - grab your coat. I'll go talk to Grissom. We better go rescue him."  
  
Greg smiled weakly, and breathed a sigh of relief, "Thanks Warrick. I knew I could count on you."  
  
Warrick nodded grimly, "He's my friend too."  
  
* * * * *  
  
The Jupiter Club was probably one of the most disreputable bars in Las Vegas. It was so seedy; it was almost a caricature in and of itself. The blinking neon sign was half lit -Girls! Girls! Girls! - it flashed - "_upit__ __ub."  
  
Warrick grimaced in distaste as he and Greg walked in. The bar was full of smoke - some of it legal, some of it not. It made his eyes sting. Up on the bar, a giggly half dressed woman was strutting her stuff, her pierced nipples painfully engorged. She smiled enticingly at the men leering up at her, licking her lips as she slid onto the counter and writhed across it on her knees.  
  
"You come here often?"  
  
Greg shook his head, "No. Just the other night, as a joke. The beer is cheap."  
  
"Just like everything else in here. You say your friend works here?"  
  
"Yeah - but hopefully not for long! There's Nick over there. Ray's with him." Greg pointed. Warrick followed Greg's outstretched hand and saw his friend shoot back something alcoholic and rise unsteadily to his feet. Ray reached out to keep Nick from stumbling over, but Nick just slapped his hands away. "Don't fucking touch me, asshole!"  
  
Even from a distance of twenty or so feet, both Warrick and Greg could hear Nick quite clearly. His surly voice carried over the din. Ray looked up and smiled grimly when he saw Greg.  
  
"Thank God!" he snapped, "get this guy out of here!"  
  
Greg nodded, "Sorry, Ray. How long has he been here?"  
  
"Hour - hour and a half. He hasn't had a whole lot to drink, but it's really affected him. I don't recall him being such an asshole when he was here the other night."  
  
"Who you calling an asshole?" Nick growled suddenly, turning to a baleful gaze on Ray before his eyes widened slightly at the sight of Greg and Warrick. "Hey guys. Come to join me for a drink?"  
  
"No, Nick," Warrick responded, "We've come to take you home."  
  
"Forget it. Don't wanna go. If you aren't gonna drink with me, get the fuck out."  
  
Warrick sighed, "Nick, we're taking you home."  
  
Nick grinned, "Like to see you try it. I can take you."  
  
Warrick rolled his eyes at Greg, mouth tightening imperceptibly in anger. "What the hell is wrong with you today Nick?"  
  
"Nothing that a couple more shots of JD won't cure," Nick replied. He flicked a glance at Greg. "Greggo, c'mon buddy. Have a drink."  
  
"You've had enough, Nick. C'mon, let us take you home." Greg studied his friend worriedly, noting the pallor of his face. If it was at all possible, Nick looked worse than he had when shift started. Greg felt like he was looking at a walking corpse. "You need some sleep." He reached out a hand to place it on Nick's shoulder, but Nick pulled away, glaring at Greg and Warrick then back again. "Touch me again, and you'll be sorry."  
  
"Okay, that's it." Warrick spoke up, "I've had enough of this bullshit, Nick. You're coming with us, or I'll call Grissom to come and deal with you. It's your call."  
  
Nick scowled, his eyes bleary as he looked at Warrick, "You'd fucking do it too, wouldn't you?"  
  
"If it's the only way to get you out of here, damn straight. Greg, you drive Nick's truck -I'll follow you."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Greg didn't even see what hit him. The minute they were out of the bar, he was jumped. Apparently, Ray had been correct when he stated Nick had pissed off the wrong person, but he hadn't told Greg the guy was bigger than Magilla Gorilla. And Magilla had two very large friends.  
  
Wincing as he struggled to get to his feet, he noticed that Warrick and Nick were cornered. The man who had taken him out was obviously more focused on getting Nick then in hurting Greg. Warrick stood coolly, glancing from man to man, tightening his grip on his friend.  
  
"You don't want to do this," he started calmly.  
  
"We don't want you. Just you're friend here. I have a score to settle with him."  
  
"Can't do that, man. Can't just give him to you."  
  
Greg was more scared then he had ever been in his whole life. Moving forward, he quickly joined Warrick, standing on the opposite side of Nick. The big man who had thrown him down smiled at him.  
  
"I'd step back, little buddy. We don't want to hurt you."  
  
Greg sighed, before grinning humorlessly at the three men. "I don't want you to hurt me either. But I have to warn you against hurting my friend here. He's a cop. You lay a finger on him, and the entire LVPD will be all over you. You know what it's like."  
  
Magilla looked skeptical, "He's a cop?"  
  
"Yeah - Crime Scene Specialist. And he's had a rough day. Caught a bad case earlier, you know. Child molestation. So if he offended you, I'm sorry - but he's a little drunk. We just came to take him home."  
  
Magilla grunted at Greg and cracked his knuckles. "Little kid, eh? You gonna catch the guy that did it?"  
  
Greg nodded calmly, but inside he was quaking in his boots, "We hope so. And we need him in one piece to do it."  
  
Magilla smiled grimly, "You got spunk, skinny. I guess I'll let your friend live. Just get him the hell outta here."  
  
Greg smiled, "Yessir. Trying to do that right now."  
  
* * * * *  
  
"Smart, Greg. Very smart." Warrick murmured approvingly as they loaded Nick into his truck. "You didn't need me after all."  
  
"You kidding me?" Greg squeaked, "I was petrified."  
  
"Didn't show," Warrick smiled. "You can have my back any time."  
  
Greg half-smiled at that. Nick was out of it, body lolling all over the place as Warrick struggled to buckle him into the passenger side of his truck.  
  
"Whazzat.whaz ya doin..zat you?" Nick was mumbling incoherently, "Sorry, I'se sorry." Greg was surprised to see that Nick was crying, tears leaving streaks on his haggard face.  
  
"Shh, Nick," Warrick replied, voice soothing, "It's alright, man. Nothing to be sorry about. We're taking you home, now. It's alright. You good to drive, Greg?"  
  
Greg nodded, "Not a problem. I'll meet you at Nick's place."  
  
He waited until Warrick hopped in his car, before starting the truck and almost blasting his head off. Quickly turning the stereo system down, he glanced at Nick who hadn't even flinched at the deafening noise. "Since when did you start listening to Rob Zombie?" he muttered.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Nick was a little more lucid by the time they pulled into his driveway. Greg had rolled all the windows down, and the cool night air had gone a far way in clearing Nick's head. As Greg lurched to a stop in front of Nick's house, his friend quickly unbuckled and threw himself out the door. Greg winced when the sound of violent retching filled the air.  
  
Warrick had parked behind Greg, and the two men stood awkwardly behind their friend, waiting for him to finish throwing up.  
  
"You alright, Nicky?"  
  
Nick pushed himself shakily upwards, wiping a hand across his mouth in disgust. "Christ, twice in one night," he muttered hoarsely. Keeping his eyes firmly on the ground, he shuffled forward gingerly. *Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot* The ground pitched and weaved around him, and his legs felt like rubber. He sighed in relief when he felt Warrick and Greg move to either side of him, arms bracing as they helped him up the front steps of his condominium.  
  
Stepping into the foyer, he slid out of his jacket, dropping it into a heap on the floor and stumbled down the hallway. His baseball shirt was splattered in regurgitated booze. Grimacing in distaste, Nick peeled it over his head and dropped it in the middle of his hallway.  
  
"What the hell happened to your arm, Nick?"  
  
Nick paused and turned blearily towards Warrick. In his haste to get to bed, he had almost forgotten he had company. Greg and Warrick were still standing in the front entrance of his house. Reaching out blindly, he flicked on the lights and tried to keep his balance as the flashes dancing in front of his eyes gave him vertigo.  
  
"Oops!" he felt like giggling, "I forgot you were here! Come in, come in!"  
  
Warrick and Greg shared a brief glance, before Warrick shrugged and stepped down the hallway after Nick. "Nick, man, what did you do to your arm?" he asked again.  
  
Nick blinked at Warrick goofily before looking at the large gauze wrapping on his forearm. It was decidedly unsterile looking, rusty with blood from his wound. "Cut it on a screw when I was taking pictures of Nicky - the dead boy." His jaw tightened suddenly, and he quickly tried to blink back the sudden images of the kid in his little league uniform, "Grissom bandaged it."  
  
Greg stepped into the hallway and took in the bandage as well, whistling under his breath, "It needs to be re-bandaged. That doesn't look good at all. Where's you're first aid kit?"  
  
"Bathroom," Nick replied, as he turned and stumbled towards the kitchen. Sitting himself gingerly in an empty chair at his table, he winced when Warrick started unwrapping the gauze. The gash on his arm was oozing an odd mixture of blood and puss; the skin tattered and bruised around it. Hot red lines striated outwards from the gash and up his arm. Frowning slightly, Warrick took a closer look at Nick. The glassy eyes and sheen of sweat he had earlier attributed to too much alcohol suddenly took on a whole new meaning.  
  
"You need to go to the hospital. This is infected."  
  
Greg, who had returned with the first aid kit gasped when he saw Nick's arm. "Cripes, Nick. You've cut through the muscle in some places. That's gonna scar really badly. You did that on a screw head?"  
  
Nick nodded. He felt incredibly tired suddenly, his head too heavy for his neck. Without the pressure from the bandage, his arm started throbbing and burning mercilessly. Greg and Warrick were talking to him about his arm, but he ignored them. All he wanted to do was sleep. He was so cold. The anger which had burned hotly in his chest the majority of the evening was gone, leaving Nick feeling strangely bereft. Without his anger, what did he have?  
  
Nick closed his eyes, drifting in and out of consciousness as he fought to stay awake. Greg's panicky voice infiltrated the recesses of his brain, and Nick struggled to open his eyes. Warrick was on his cell phone behind Greg, his voice pitched low and urgent. Nick wondered who he was talking to too.  
  
He felt cool hands on his face, gripping his cheeks, and forced his eyes to focus on Greg's alarmed brown ones. He tried to smile reassuringly at his young friend, but knew he had failed miserably when he felt tears slide scalding down his face.  
  
"I'm a hollow man, Greggo, a hollow man."  
  
___________________________________  
  
Author's Note: next chapter, we find out what's bothering Nick. And it's not what you might be thinking - not entirely anyway. I know I originally said 3 -4 chapters, but it looks more like maybe 5 - 7 now. The more I get into it, the bigger it gets. (And I mean that in a totally non-gutterball kinda way, thank you very much.) The angry!Nick songs are: Papa Roach - Last Resort and Korn - Falling Away From Me . 


	4. FLASHBACKS

FLASHBACKS  
  
When Nick woke up, he had no idea where he was. He felt awful. He felt worse than awful. His entire body was achy and clammy, and his arm itched like hell. And his bed smelt funny.  
  
Turning his head sideways on his pillow, he blinked in surprise when he saw the silver metal of bed rails; a little beige push button dangling from a cord.  
  
"What the fuck?" he muttered.  
  
"Hey, you're awake." Warrick sat up tiredly in the chair he had been dozing in, smiling at the look of shock on his friends' face. "How you feeling?"  
  
"I feel like a cat crawled into my mouth and died," Nick responded hoarsely. "Why am I in the hospital?"  
  
Warrick shrugged and stretched his arms up over his head, "Sepsis - blood poisoning. The gash on your arm got infected. And you needed stitches."  
  
Nick frowned and looked down at his arm. It was wrapped firmly in pristine white gauzing. He realized for the first time that he had an IV dripping into his hand. "Well, that's just great."  
  
"Hey, Sleeping Beauty! You're awake!" Greg's cheerful voice preceded him into the hospital room, and Nick smiled tiredly at the younger man. Greg held a tray of coffee in one hand and a large paper bag in another. "That means you get to drink your coffee while it's still hot. Good timing!"  
  
"How long have I been here?"  
  
Warrick looked at his watch, "Well, we dragged you home from Jupiter Club at 3:30 am, realized you needed medical attention almost immediately and have been here at the hospital since about 4:00. It's almost 8:00 now."  
  
"What's the IV for?"  
  
"The little bag is drugs to fight the infection, the big bag is to re- hydrate you. Doc said you were in bad shape. When was the last time you ate?" Greg plopped himself into an empty chair on the other side of the bed and handed Warrick his coffee, before quickly doctoring Nick's for him and handing it over. Smiling, he reached into the paper bag and pulled out a new toothbrush and paste, some disposable razors, and a bag of Doritos, which he tossed at Nick. "Here's your breakfast."  
  
* * * * * *  
  
Sara hated hospitals. Always had; always would. They always smelled so - sickly. Nick was in there, somewhere. Room 11A-WestB. She sighed as she looked at Grissom and Catherine, who were intently studying the large map / guide standing in the middle of the main entrance. A large yellow arrow pointed to a bright red dot. *You Are Here* she read, *And there's no other place I'd rather be. Right.*  
  
"When did hospitals get so large they needed information panels like they have at malls," Grissom muttered, not expecting an answer. "I think this is where we need to go." He pointed to the West Wing, finger taping a large B.  
  
Catherine smirked at him, "You see, that's why you have the doctorate."  
  
Grissom didn't respond, and Sara sighed. The man had hardly spoken since Warrick had called them earlier that morning to tell them they were taking Nick to the hospital. Grissom not speaking was not all that unusual, but Grissom not speaking while looking vaguely guilty and extremely tense was.  
  
"I'm amazed he got looked at and into a room so quickly," Sara spoke into the silence as the three of them headed towards West B. "Don't you normally have to sit for hours in emergency? Isn't that a hospital law?"  
  
"The last time I had to bring Lyndsey to emerg., we where in the waiting area for 3 ½ hours before a doctor even looked at her," Catherine agreed.  
  
"Blood poisoning is no joke," Grissom muttered. "They take acute cases much faster."  
  
"It's not your fault he's here, Griss," Sara's voice was gentle. "You didn't know this was going to happen."  
  
Grissom shot an annoyed glance at her, "I'm his boss. I should have forced him to come here the minute I saw that gash."  
  
Rounding the corner, Grissom headed left into the section clearly marked 1A - 22A, scowling at the room numbers until he found the one he was looking for. Knocking lightly on the door, he pushed it open and walked in, Sara and Catherine hot on his heels.  
  
"Hail, hail, the gang's all here," Nick's tone was dry as he greeted his friends. Grissom was frowning at him, and Nick scowled back.  
  
"Hey Nick - how are you feeling?" Nick tried his best to smile reassuringly at Catherine, congratulating himself on a job well done when Catherine smiled back.  
  
"As good as can be expected," Nick responded. Sara stepped forward and eyed the open Doritos bag with amused disdain.  
  
"That's healthy," she teased.  
  
"I don't see you bringing me breakfast," he retorted. His eyes darted to Grissom again, who still hadn't said anything, and his jaw tightened.  
  
"Grissom," he grated.  
  
"Nicky," Grissom's response was strained. "How's the arm?"  
  
"Well, they haven't amputated yet, so I guess it's doing okay."  
  
Catherine walked to the corner of the room and grabbed a chair, sliding it in beside Warrick and sitting down. "Blood poisoning, huh?"  
  
"That's right."  
  
The room fell into an awkward silence. Nick smiled grimly as he crunched a nacho with great exaggeration. "So," he finally said, "what did you guys do last night?"  
  
"Managed to close the murder/suicide we were working on," Sara spoke up. "Pretty shut and dry."  
  
"Find anything else out on the Steeply kid? His parents back yet?" Nick asked.  
  
"Nope and not yet," Grissom responded. "After we leave you, I'm going back to the crime scene and see if we missed anything last night."  
  
"I didn't miss anything," Nick ground out.  
  
"I didn't say you did," Grissom replied tightly.  
  
Another awkward silence; broken only when a doctor walked into the room. "Mr. Stokes. Nice to see you lucid. I'm Dr. Weiss." The doctor quickly checked his chart, before turning to smile at him again. "You seem to have a lot of friends."  
  
"Some better friends than others," Nick muttered. Sara gaped at him in shock, before quickly turning to look at Grissom. Grissom's face was shuttered, but Nick's words had made him blanch. Muttering a quick good- bye, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. Sara turned to glare at Nick, a disappointed frown marring her features.  
  
"I've never known you to be deliberately cruel, Nick. What the hell is wrong with you lately?" Turning to Cath, she said, "I'll catch up with him. I'm supposed to be going back to the crime scene with him anyway."  
  
Nick watched Sara as she rose to her feet gracefully, a slight sense of shame niggling in the back of his mind. He tamped it down ruthlessly when Sara turned to look at him again, and smiled passively when she leaned down and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before whispering in his ear, "I miss the old Nick. I hope he gets better soon."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Dr. Weiss was proficient. Ignoring the sudden tension surrounding him, he checked Nick's chart, asked him a couple of questions, and wrote him a prescription for pain killers and penicillin.  
  
"I'll have a nurse come in and remove the IV once the rest of the cephalosporin is gone," he stated, "and you can go home. You need to take all the prescription, and if you experience dizziness, nausea, continuing high fever and / or chills, you must come right back to the hospital. Do you understand me, Mr. Stokes? This is not something to play with."  
  
Nick nodded absently, and Catherine spoke up, "Don't worry, Doctor Weiss. We'll make sure he takes care of himself."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Nick tried to ignore Greg. The younger man was in his kitchen, foraging for something to eat. He had pulled the first babysitting shift, and was adamant about sticking around, despite Nick's protestations that he should just go home and get some sleep.  
  
"You've got a comfortable looking sofa," Greg had responded. "And I'm more scared of Catherine than I am of you, so I'm staying. Live with it."  
  
Nick had simply shrugged, "Whatever. I'm going to have a shower."  
  
"You need one," Greg had retorted. "Where's your linen closet? I'll set up the sofa."  
  
Stumbling into his living room after his shower, Nick rubbed a damp towel against his hair. He had slid into a pair of ratty old sweat pants with the knees ripped out and an old frat shirt that had seen better days. Even though he knew he should be sleeping, he felt oddly wired.  
  
He quickly flipped through the channels on his TV, sighing in disgust as he settled for some game show that Donny Osmond hosted. Donny Osmond!  
  
Greg joined him a few minutes later, a TV tray carefully balanced with two bowls of cereal, a glass of milk and a hot tea. "Wonder if Marie's still a hottie?" he grinned.  
  
Nick shrugged, "She was always a little too goody-goody for me."  
  
"That's rich," Greg responded as he handed Nick one of the bowls, "coming from the king of white bread."  
  
"That's me," Nick said grimly, before flicking off the TV. "I'm going to bed."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Of course, sleep wouldn't come easily. When Nick had woken up earlier that morning in the hospital, he had felt fairly normal. A little off his game, perhaps, but all in all, not that bad. Even though he resented the fact that Greg was basically babysitting him, it was sort of nice to know that his friends were concerned about him. Hell, if he knew someone who was behaving as erratically as he was, he'd be concerned too.  
  
The ringing of his phone made him start, and he realized he had actually managed to drift off for a few minutes. He grunted as he rolled over onto his side, momentarily forgetting about his damaged arm and hissing in pain when his weight crushed it into his mattress.  
  
"Fuck, that hurts," he muttered as he grabbed the phone and pulled it to his ear. "What?"  
  
"Nicky? Is that you?"  
  
Nick rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Mom."  
  
"How are you doing?"  
  
"Didn't we just talk yesterday?" Nick tried to keep the annoyance from his voice, but realized he had failed when his mother didn't respond right away. He could feel the guilt vibes she was sending him mentally all the way from Texas.  
  
"I just wanted to see how you were doing," his mother finally responded.  
  
"Couldn't be better."  
  
"Nicky -" his mother paused, and Nick could picture in his mind, mouth pursed as she carefully chose her words, "I heard about what happened to Peter. So, how are you doing - really."  
  
"I'm fine, Mom," he managed to grate out, "and I'm trying to sleep before shift, so can we cut this short?"  
  
"But Nicky -"  
  
"Bye Mom." Nick hung up on his mother and rolled over onto his back, throwing his arm up over his eyes, still tightly gripping the portable receiver.. Shit.  
  
The phone started ringing again, and Nick grimaced at it before standing and popping the cord out of the jack. He proceeded to disconnect the other two phones in his house before he crawled back into his bed and stared at the ceiling. His arm was throbbing mercilessly, and he wondered idly if it was too early to take another painkiller, or five.  
  
He was so damned sad.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Houston was hot in the summer time. Nick was sweating as he sat there on the park bench, ball cap pulled down tightly to shield his eyes. Small beads of perspiration beaded in the scruff on his face, making the half- assed goatee he was trying to grow to give him a more disreputable look itch like crazy. He ran a palm over his chin and smiled as he saw a young woman and a little girl walk past him with a couple of ice-cream cones.  
  
"Stokes," a voice crackled suddenly from the small earpiece hidden by his ball cap, "he's coming in now. Doesn't seem to have anyone with him. Just seal the deal man, and we'll come in."  
  
Nick looked across the soccer field and tapped his nose with his finger, *Loud and clear, Pete. You've got my back.*  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
"You've got to get rid of that fucking goatee, man. You look like you're molting."  
  
Nick smiled good-naturedly as he shrugged out of his t-shirt and quickly pulled on a clean one before shutting his locker. "I thought it made me look tougher."  
  
"Ain't nothing gonna make you look tougher, white bread. Tell 'im, Petey."  
  
"I gotta agree with Ford, Nicky. You're too 'pretty boy' to get away with that. Looks bad."  
  
"Thanks a lot, partner. Weren't you the one that told me I needed to change my look?"  
  
"You can change your look without doing that to your face. Get a crew cut, for chrissakes! You'd look a lot less frat boy if you got rid of the bangs."  
  
"You're just jealous 'cuz I have more hair than you," Nick retorted. Ford started laughing, and rubbed a large hand over Pete's smooth scalp.  
  
"He's got you there, Petey."  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Nick had never been so upset in his entire life. Sitting in the diner, he stared into his coffee cup and tried to regulate his thinking. Across the table, Pete scowled at him blurrily.  
  
"It's not like I'm hooked, man. I can stop any time I want to."  
  
"Shut the fuck up, Pete, and let me think," Nick hissed back. "How the hell did you get into this? You're a narc, for fuck's sake. You know how bad this shit is."  
  
Pete just glared at him. His eyes were glassy and hollowed, his complexion waxy, "You gonna tell on me?"  
  
Nick sighed, "When did you start?"  
  
"Manny 'Bumps' - started then."  
  
"How?" Nick was startled, "why?"  
  
"I had to do it. Would have blown my cover if I didn't." Pete shrugged. "It's no big deal."  
  
"It is a big deal. It's a big fucking deal, man."  
  
"I can stop. I'll stop. Please, Nicky. Just give me a chance. I've only done it a couple of times; it's not like I'm addicted."  
  
"You know it's not that easy, Petey. This is unbelievable. I can't believe you're doing this!"  
  
Pete sighed, and his glassy eyes filled with tears, "I'm sorry, Nick. I promise - I promise I'll stop. Just don't tell anyone - I'll lose my badge. We're best friends, man. Trust me. I won't let you down."  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
"Officer down! Officer down!" Nick whispered into his walkie. The warehouse, which moments before had been a blazing shoot out, was now eerily silent. Nick was crouched behind a large shipping container, feeling frantically for Ford's pulse before starting chest compressions. "Stay with me, Ford. Come on, man. Stay with me! Ambulance is on the way." The larger man had caught a couple of bullets, and Nick had barely managed to drag his bulk out of harms way before all hell had broken loose. He had no fucking idea were Pete was, but it wasn't with him.  
  
"Come on, Ford. Come on, Ford. Breathe, man. Breathe."  
  
When the EMTs arrived, they found Nick covered in blood that wasn't his, compressing the chest of a man who they guessed had probably died with the second bullet, more than 30 minutes ago.  
  
Nick had stumbled shakily around the warehouse, noting where other bodies lay - a couple of cops he worked with but didn't know all that well had been shot but were still breathing; a couple of men who were obviously not cops were dead. And Pete was nowhere to be found.  
  
Nick was the one who had managed to track him down. Pete was his partner, after all. They had worked together for three years. Nick had been best man when Pete married Marsha, and had stood by him when Marsha had left him after 14 months, saying she couldn't live with a cop anymore. So it was Nick who found him, sitting in the diner where Pete had sworn to get off the drugs.  
  
"No one was supposed to die, Nicky. That's not how it was supposed to go down," Pete had whined.  
  
"Ford died, Pete! What the fuck did you do?"  
  
"It was Rico. He just wanted a diversion while he moved some stuff, I swear to God, that's what he told me. What are you gonna do?"  
  
"I'm gonna do what I shoulda done when I first found out you were using. I'm taking you in, Petey. You're under arrest."  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
"I don't wanna fucking talk to you." Pete glared at Nick from behind the Plexiglas barrier of the state prison. Further investigation into the warehouse shooting had provided ample evidence - none of it forensic - that Pete himself had set the squad up. Nick hadn't believed it - had refused to believe it. Pete was a strung out junkie, not a murderer. And Ford had been one of his best friends. Nick knew Ford's death was eating Pete up. Pete had been made the fall guy by a smart dealer, who knew how to work the circumstantial evidence.  
  
Of course, in the grand scheme of things, what Nick knew and what the evidence said were contradictory. The DA hadn't honestly cared that Pete had been a pawn - an officer had died and someone had to pay. And the fact that it was a narc gone bad that the DA managed to convict looked good in the press. Pete had been charged with murder and several counts of attempted murder, had been found guilty by a jury of his peers, and had been sentenced to life in prison.  
  
"I just came to tell you I quit the squad," Nick had replied. "I've quit, and I'm moving to Vegas."  
  
"La-dee-fucking-da," Pete had responded, bitterly. "Don't call me, 'cuz I sure as fuck won't be calling you, friend."  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Nick woke in a cold sweat, his sheets sticking to him. Sitting up groggily, his mind reeling and his heart pounding, he wiped an arm angrily across his eyes. Reaching over, he opened the drawer of his night table and pulled out the cigar box sitting inside.  
  
Sighing as he opened it up, he smiled grimly as the picture taped to the inside of the lid. Nick, Pete and Ford were sitting in the squad room; smiling for the camera. A couple of yellow newspaper clippings caught Nick's eye, along with several letters address to Pete but returned to sender. Nick ignored them. Instead, he lifted out the newest clipping; Pete's death notification. His ex-best-friend - his ex-partner - had died in prison a few days ago. One of Nick's old buddies on the force had called to tell him about it; saying the coroner had ruled the death a suicide. Drug overdose. Sighing, he looked at the picture again.  
  
*I'm sorry, Ford. It's my fault you're dead. I'm sorry, Petey. It's my fault you're dead.*  
  
Fingering the small stack of unopened letters, Nick let the tears fall.  
  
________________________________  
  
Author's Note: Okay, tried something different with this chapter. Hope it worked. Guilty!Nick is breaking my heart, here. 


	5. GUILT

GUILT  
  
Grissom didn't know what to do, and it wasn't a feeling he liked. He liked being in control; he liked knowing what was going on. He wasn't a man prone to outward displays of emotion. Because of this, many people thought him emotionless. This simply was not the case. Grissom cared about people - deeply so. He just didn't know how to show them. He had never known.  
  
He had grown up in a household that had been filled with long days of silence interspersed with brief fits of yelling and recriminations. The silent days - days when his father wasn't home, but was traveling with his job - had been wonderful. He and his mother had shared more in the silences than some people ever did with a million words.  
  
When his father was home, the yelling began.  
  
"Don't wave your hands around at me!" his father would yell, "Use your fucking voice. Just because you've lost your hearing doesn't mean you've lost your tongue!"  
  
So Grissom's mother would speak, her voice atonal and rusty from misuse, either too loud or too soft, but never in between. And his father would yell some more. "Speak up, just because you're deaf doesn't mean the rest of us are!" or "Why the hell are you talking so loud? I'm not the one who's deaf!"  
  
His father's visits home had always been traumatic for both Grissom and his mother. When Gil was five, his father had stopped coming home altogether. Grissom had never really missed him; although, looking back, he was sure his mother had.  
  
He had found her once, crying while skimming through an old photo album, fingers lightly tracing his father's face as she tried to blink back tears. He remembered crawling into his mother's lap, wanting to soothe her but not knowing how.  
  
"Why are you crying?" he had asked her.  
  
"Because today is my anniversary," she had responded.  
  
The language of his mother's hands had always soothed him. Watching her sign was like watching a graceful dance; the dips of the wrists, the lifting and twisting of the fingers more powerful than mere words. He could tell his mother's moods from the way she signed. When she was angry, her hands crackled with energy, fingers snapping. When she was happy, her hands skipped around the words she was forming. And when she was sad, her hands drooped, her fingers languid. For a long time after his father had left them, she had been sad.  
  
Grissom had never seen his father again.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Sara found Grissom sitting in the Tahoe, staring off into space. Opening the passenger door, she slid in beside him, "He didn't mean it."  
  
"Yes. He did." Grissom slanted a sideways glance at her, and started the Tahoe.  
  
"He's just angry you took him off the case," Sara argued gently, "and he hasn't been himself lately. I'm sure once he's feeling better, he'll apologize."  
  
"I should have made him go the hospital last night," Grissom muttered.  
  
"The mood he was in? He wouldn't have listened to you," she paused and looked at him thoughtfully, lips pursed, "He'll be back at work tonight, and things will be different. You'll see."  
  
Grissom shrugged, "I guess I will. So, here's the park where the body was discovered."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Somehow, Nick had finally managed to fall asleep. Despite the agonizing throbbing in his arm; despite the dark ache inside him, Nick had drifted off. The soft voices drifting down the hallway were what woke him, a few hours later. Warrick had arrived.  
  
Listen to the muted conversation of the two men in his living room, Nick debated getting up and joining them, more out of politeness than any urgent need to actually be civil. He hadn't invited them, after all. But being with them was better than lying here in the dark, eyes gritty with sleep and tears, being eaten alive by guilt. He thought.  
  
He shifted to his side, feeling the pointy corner of the cigar box dig into his rib cage, and grunted as he sat up. The contents of the box had tipped out while he had slept, unopened letters and old clippings and photos spread haphazardly across his bed. Sighing, he gathered them together and tossed them back into the box, pausing briefly when he picked up a picture of himself, in full dress uniform, graduating from the police academy.  
  
Had he ever really looked as fresh-scrubbed as that young officer from the crime scene last night? The picture in his hands told him he had. Looking at it was like looking at a different person. It was hard to merit it, but long ago Nick had actually been happy. He rubbed his thumb absently over the picture, noticing the proud smiles on his parents' faces as they stood beside him and felt his chest tighten.  
  
*They aren't proud of you anymore, are they Nicky-boy? Not since you left Texas in disgrace, with your tail tucked between your legs.*  
  
It's not like he had lost his job when he had revealed to the chief that he had known Pete was using. It's not like anyone came out and blamed him for Ford's death; the injuries to the other police officers. After all, Pete was his partner. Pete was his best friend. And they all followed the code - the blue wall; brotherhood. You never turned on a fellow cop. But - but - but. Ford was dead. Ford was dead. And he wouldn't have been if Nick had followed his instincts and not his heart - he should have turned Pete in.  
  
The chief, of course, had busted him - written reprimand, suspension, investigation by Internal Affairs - the whole nine yards. He had been cleared, but it hadn't cleared his conscience. After his suspension was over he had gone back to the squad, but it had all been peripheral. His old friends gave him a wide-berth; looking at him askance and shaking their heads. *It's his fault.* And it was. If he had turned Pete in, his partner would be in rehab instead of the fucking State Penitentiary. Ford would be watching his little girl graduate from Kindergarten into Grade 1, instead of ashes scattered over his family's small ranch outside of Dallas. And Nick - well, he would be happy.  
  
The whole thing had been a nightmare for his family as well. At the time, there had been speculation that his father was next in line to be appointed to the Texas State Supreme Court. He had been an ADA for years, a judge for almost as long, and there was an opening coming up. His father had been the top contender.  
  
And then, the press had gotten wind - somehow - of the Internal Affairs investigation against Nick. Word had gotten out that the cop charged with the death of Officer Ford White had been Officer Stokes partner, and young Officer Stokes had known about Pete Middleton's drug problem and had stayed silent. Word had gotten out that said Officer Stokes was actually Nicholas Garret Stokes the fourth - oldest son and biggest liability to Judge Nicholas Garret Stokes, the third. And his father hadn't been appointed to the Texas State Supreme Court; at least not that year.  
  
So - leaving Houston hadn't been hard. He had nothing to stay for. And a hell of a lot to run away from - the guilt, the anger, the searing disappointment in his parents eyes when they looked at him; the knowledge that it was his fault.  
  
He had chosen Las Vegas as his new home for a couple of reasons. First and foremost, no one knew him here. They didn't know him, they didn't know his family. The Stokes name meant nothing to anybody in Las Vegas, and Nick liked the anonymity. And they had a good crime lab - one of the best in the country. At that point in his life, his fledgling career as a CSI was the only thing keeping him sane.  
  
Nick had transferred into the crime lab back in Texas the year of Pete's trial, hoping that some how he would be able to find the physical evidence needed to prove that Rico had been involved, and that Pete was just the fall guy. Of course, that wish had been wildly naïve. As A CSI Level I, Nick had been allowed nowhere near a case so big. So, Pete had crucified by circumstantial evidence. Pete's trial was probably the biggest reason Nick even WAS a CSI.  
  
But was his job even enough anymore? Nick didn't know. Things hadn't been good for a long time now. He had been a suspect in a murder case. He had looked down the barrel of a gun twice in the last 18 months; sure that he was gonna die just like Ford had. He had been stalked, pushed out a window. And to top it all off, Grissom - his boss and his mentor, a man he had admired from his first day at the LVPD Crime Lab- thought he was a an I and a Q short of the entire alphabet. His career seemed to have stalled out - he was barely allowed to work solo yet; and the crimes they were called to investigate just seemed to get worse. His thoughts ricocheted suddenly to the image of Nick Steeply lying bruised and battered and dead in that tubing, and he fought down the sudden violent urge to vomit yet again. *I'm not gonna let you down, kid. I swear to God, I'm gonna find out who hurt you, and when I do, I'm gonna kill them.*  
  
Looking at the picture he held in his hand, he couldn't believe he had ever been innocent. He ripped it apart abruptly, tearing the images into small pieces before dropping them on his bed. Shutting his eyes tightly, he willed himself to calm down: breathe; think. *What are you going to do now, Nicky?*  
  
He smiled dangerously as he flexed his hands, feeling the burning in his bandaged arm all the way up to his shoulder. Right now, that pain was all he needed. It proved he was still alive.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Warrick and Greg looked up in surprise when Nick stalked through the living room and into the kitchen, returning moments later with three beers. He handed one to Greg and one to Warrick, before sinking into an empty armchair.  
  
"You sleep at all?" Greg questioned dubiously.  
  
Nick smirked at the younger man, his tone easy, "Does it look like I slept?" He popped the tab on his Coors and took a deep swallow. "Drink your beer."  
  
"You shouldn't be drinking when you're on meds," Warrick chided, eyeing his friend warily. Nick's entire body spoke of tension, from the corded muscles of his throat, to the tight white lines bracketing his mouth. Nick twisted his face into a semblance of a grin.  
  
"Thank you, Mary Poppins, I'll keep that in mind before I have another."  
  
"Nick -"  
  
"Lay off, okay? I'm not in the mood," Nick snapped back. The two men looked at each other silently for a few moments, before Warrick shrugged.  
  
Greg noted absently that Nick had changed out of the disreputable sweatpants he had been wearing earlier into a faded but clean pair of blue jeans and a dark t-shirt. He still looked like hell, so unlike the Nick he was familiar with, it was almost unfathomable.  
  
"I don't think Grissom will be expecting you at work tonight - " he offered tentatively, "what with your arm and all. Maybe you should go back to bed, try to get some more sleep."  
  
"Nope," Nick responded, "I think I'll go find out what's going on with the Steeply case." His tone was intense, his gaze practically daring Warrick and Greg to remind him he'd been yanked off it. Finishing the last swallow of beer, he stood and headed towards the door. "As a matter of fact, I think I'll head in now. Close the door on the way out."  
  
Greg and Warrick looked at each other blankly when the front door slammed, before jumping to their feet and quickly following their friend. Nick was already in his truck.  
  
"Nick!" Warrick yelled, "Nick!"  
  
Nick rolled down his window and looked at his friend, his expression as calm as his eyes were tense. "What?"  
  
"Where the hell are you going?"  
  
"I already told you," Nick responded. "I'm going to talk to Grissom about the Steeply case. I'll see you at the lab."  
  
* * * * *  
  
The clock in the dashboard of Nick's truck indicated it was only 4:00 in the afternoon. Nick grinned as he blew through a red light, wondering idly if Grissom was even at the lab, before mentally chiding himself. *Grissom's always at the lab.*  
  
He didn't know what he was going to say to the man when he found him, actually. He just knew he had to say something. His chest felt so tight it hurt to breathe. Faces of people he had known and failed flashed before his eyes: mother, father, siblings, Pete, Ford, a myriad of victims he hadn't been able to save - Nick Steeply. Somehow, thinking about Nick Steeply tightened his resolve.  
  
He needed to get back on that case. Nick Steeply was his salvation. If he could find out who had raped and murdered that boy; it would justify his existence - his reason for becoming a CSI in the first place.  
  
If Grissom didn't put him back on the case, he didn't know what he was going to do.  
  
______________________  
  
Author's Note: Last major chapter of back story, I swear. From here on in, it's all moving forward.  
  
FYI - look for a new chapter of Learning to Fly and for Tin Man to be posted within the next 48 hours or so. Just applying the finishing touches. 


	6. FALSEHOODS

FALSEHOODS  
  
As Nick had suspected, Grissom was still at the lab. The guy practically fucking lived there. He half expected to see Sara's car as well, and was relieved when he didn't. He didn't want to deal with her right now. He liked Sara, but she had the tenacity of a pit bull and the people skills to match, and he knew if they ran in to each other she would just end up pissing him off. Smiling grimly to himself, he slid out of his truck and headed into the building. *Just pretend that nothing is wrong, Nicky-boy,* he mentally exhorted himself, *paste on a smile; apologize for yesterday and this morning and ask to be put back on the case. You can do it.*  
  
He smiled at the front receptionist as he entered the building, absently reaching into his jean jacket pocket for his ID badge as he walked by. He could hear the faint sounds of a piano concerto emanating from Grissom's office; the music haunting and melancholic. He recognized it as a piece Grissom played often, and wondered if it had any personal meaning to him. Whatever. The music was fucking sad, man. Made him want to cry.  
  
Grissom was sitting in his office at his desk, head back and eyes closed, lost in thought. He looked - different, somehow older than he had just this morning, each line on his face a map of devastation and regret. Nick paused in the doorway, studying Grissom. He wondered idly if he was the person who had etched that grief so deeply in Grissom's face and was surprised at the sudden tightening in his own chest, before he mercilessly shoved his emotions back down. *Of course he's not,* he muttered to himself as he pasted a large grin on his face, *one of his bugs must have died.*  
  
Clearing his throat, he knocked lightly on the open door and stepped into the office. *Act 1, Scene 1 - The Apology*. "Grissom?"  
  
Grissom didn't respond. Didn't even twitch. Nick frowned. "Grissom?" Louder this time, voice slightly raspy, "Grissom!?"  
  
The older man opened an eye and looked at him warily, sighing as he sat up, "Nick. You're here early."  
  
Nick shrugged, "I wanted to talk with you. You got a minute?" Behind his eyes he could feel his blood pulsing. The smile on his face felt like it was going to crack his head in two. When Grissom indicated the empty chair in front of his desk, Nick entered the office and sat down. Silence filled the office, uncomfortable and tense, so thick he could feel the weight of it on his chest, suffocating him.  
  
Grissom studied the younger man in front of him intently, noting the pallor still clinging to his features; the bleakness in his eyes. "How's your arm?"  
  
"Sore," Nick responded, letting his gaze drop to the gauze wrapping it. "The medicine is helping, but I don't want to take too many pain killers and be out of it. The antibiotics are bad enough."  
  
Silence. Nick slanted his glance sideways and down, to the large tarantula Grissom had sitting in a small terrarium on his desk. He swore he could hear the fucking thing breathe. A small bead of sweat trickled uncomfortably down his back, and he sighed.  
  
He wished Grissom would say something else, make this easier on him. Finally, he blurted out, "Listen, Grissom. About what I said today at the hospital -"  
  
Grissom waved a hand carelessly to the side, "Don't worry about it."  
  
"I shouldn't have said it, and I wanted to apologize. I was - angry, and my arm hurt -" *still am, still does* "- and I lashed out at you." Nick found it very easy to look contrite, and he glanced at Grissom nervously, "I really didn't mean it."  
  
"That's what Sara said. She said you didn't mean it." Grissom looked at Nick suddenly, and flexed his hands, "What's going on with you lately, Nicky? I've never seen you act like that before. Not just at the hospital, but earlier - at the crime scene, at the Steeply's house. Talking to the babysitter."  
  
Nick felt his expression tighten, and he shrugged. "Don't know," he lied. "I think I was just tired, felt like I was getting the 'flu or something. And that kid - there was no need for what happened to him. He should have been at home." Nick studied his hands, noticing the frayed cuticles and the nails bit to the nub. "It just upset me. But it won't happen again - I'm over it. I'd really like - I'm hoping - would you put me back on the case?"  
  
"I don't think that's a good idea, Nick."  
  
*I bet you don't, you fuck,* the angry voice inside Nick's head snarled back. Nick himself just quirked his lips, trying to look chagrined. "I swear it won't happen again. I know I was out of line, but I really want back on that case. I feel a connection to that kid. I want to see this through."  
  
When Grissom looked like he was about to object, Nick stalled him. "I can feel empathy for the victim without letting it cloud my responses to the investigation, Grissom. I'm a big boy. Besides which, you let Catherine investigate a rape charge against Eddie - she had way more invested in that than I do with this case. You gotta be fair, man."  
  
Grissom sighed. "Okay. But I'll yank you again if you can't keep it cool. I mean it, Nicky. I still feel like there's something you're not telling me."  
  
Nick shrugged, "You know me, Grissom. I'm an open book. What you see is what you get!" But even as he said it, he knew he was lying, and he knew Griss knew it too.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The break room was dead quite. Nick sat at the table drinking a third cup of coffee and flipping back and forth from the pictures of Nick Steeply to the information compiled at the crime scene frowning, trying to ignore the tight throbbing of his arm. Grissom had told him he and Sara had found nothing new at the playground when they had gone back this morning. Nick had known they wouldn't.  
  
Mr. and Mrs. Steeply had arrived back in Nevada on an earlier flight that afternoon, and had given brief statements to Brass and O'Reilly at their house just after lunch. Grissom was expecting them to arrive around 5:00 for general questioning. He had asked Nick to research the area, see if there were any known pedophiles living within a 5 mile square radius. So far, they were running on empty as far as suspects were concerned. Motive as well, for that matter. Motive besides the obvious - Nick Steeply had been violated in ways too terrible to contemplate.  
  
*Did you know the person who did this to you?* Nick sighed. *Did you know you were going to die?*  
  
The sound of laughter drifted down the hallway, and Nick lifted his head from the papers he had been studying, rubbing his hand across his gritty eyes. How could people be happy when little kids like Nick Steeply were raped and murdered? Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out the small bottle of painkillers and popped the top. He could have sworn the small green pills were smiling at him, and he shut his eyes tightly as he slid a couple into his hand. They burned going down. Nick wondered idly how many of the little fuckers he'd have to swallow to fill the great gaping hole inside him, and decided there weren't enough pills in the world.  
  
"Hey, Nick," the sound of Sara's voice made him jump. Photos and paper flew everywhere.  
  
"Jesus Christ, Sara!" Nick growled, "You scared the living shit outta me!"  
  
Sara looked at him sanguinely, and shrugged. "Thought you heard me. How's the arm?"  
  
"Hurts." He looked down at the table top, roughly sorting the photos and papers. *Leave me alone.*  
  
Sara had come to stand beside him, looking over his shoulder. "Didn't Grissom take you off that case?"  
  
"He put me back on it," Nick replied icily. *Remember, Nicky-boy. Nice. Be nice.*  
  
Sara sat down beside him, a surprised look on her face. "He put you back on it?"  
  
"Yeah." Nick grinned, flashing his teeth at her. "That's not a problem is it?"  
  
"Not for me. I'm just - surprised. You were pretty worked up about it last night."  
  
Nick shrugged, "You get involved with your cases all the time, so -" he sighed again, and this time shot a more genuine smile in her direction. "I want to be just like you when I grow up."  
  
Sara rolled her eyes, but Nick could sense some of the tension leaving her. He smiled again. Junkyard dog Nick made her nervous. Good to know.  
  
"Listen, Nick -" Sara started, then paused. Nick looked at her, eyebrow raised, smiling at her discomfort. "I'm worried about you."  
  
Nick plastered his patented 'who me?' look on his face, and tried to hide the sudden anger he felt at her words. "Nothing to be worried about," he replied.  
  
Sara shrugged, "I think there is. I wish - listen, Nick. I'm your friend; we're all your friends. If something was wrong, you know you could talk to me right? I wouldn't judge you or anything."  
  
*Like you didn't judge me this morning when I snapped at Grissom? Ri-ii- ight!*  
  
"Nothing to talk about. Things are all better now."  
  
Sara sighed. Nick was lying to her. She looked down at the photos he was holding in his hands. The top image was a head shot from the morgue - Robbins had cleaned the grit out of Steeply's eyes, and they shone flatly - cold and brown and dead. Much like Nick's own eyes looked right this minute; when he smiled at her and told her things were all better.  
  
Sara felt like crying.  
  
* * * * *  
  
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket, momentarily jarring his concentration. He was in Interview Room 1 with Grissom, listening intently as Grissom and Brass spoke to Nick Steeply's parents.  
  
Mr. Steeply was a tall man, reed thin and angular. He reminded Nick of Ichabod Crane from the Disney version of 'The Headless Horseman'. Mrs. Steeply was much shorter than her husband; fleshier in a pretty way. At least, Nick imagined she used to be attractive, before the horror and the grief and the guilt of her sons' death had marred her features like acid. Nick wondered if she would ever be pretty again, and vaguely doubted it. He might have even felt sorry for her, if he didn't think she and her husband were partly responsible for the entire travesty.  
  
Sighing, he quickly shifted sideways and looked at the LCD display on his vibrating phone. *Shit. His mother. Again.*  
  
Keeping his face carefully neutral, he turned back to the Steeply's.  
  
"We don't - we've never ever left him before," Mrs. Steeply's voice was warbly with grief, "but Rob - he - I - this was the first time he's ever been able to bring me to one of his seminars. We didn't - I didn't -" she broke down in fresh sobs.  
  
Mr. Steeply put his arm around her, and Nick noticed that were she was all emotion; he was all calm cold reasoning. *Probably still in shock, trying to be strong. Give it up man. Life as you knew it is OVER!*  
  
Brass leaned forward, "Why did you bring in a babysitter for the few days you were gone? Couldn't you have sent him to stay at a friends' house, or with relatives?"  
  
"We don't have any relatives in Las Vegas," Mr. Steeply replied. "And Nick wanted to stay home. Jenny has babysat for us before. We didn't think it would be a problem. She's always been very reliable." His eyes flickered angrily for a second, blazingly intense, "Little slut. Can we press charges against her? It's her fault our son is dead."  
  
Nick sat up straighter, mouth tightening imperceptibly. Grissom felt the sudden tension radiating off the younger man. "Actually," he replied, even as he touched Nick's knee, in gentle warning, "I don't think you want to do that. I know this is hard for you, and you want to blame someone - but she didn't know this would happen. It's tragic, but she's not the murderer."  
  
Mr. Steeply looked as if he were about to respond when Nick calmly added, "If we were to charge her with child endangerment, we'd have to charge you and your wife as well. You went out of state and left your child in the custody of a minor. That could be construed as child abandonment."  
  
"You bastard!" Steeply was on his feet, the icy-veneer of self-control he had barely been holding onto all night snapping at Nick's words, "It's not our fault!"  
  
Nick held up his hands placatingly, his voice smooth as silk as he responded with vicious glee, "No one's saying it was, Mr. Steeply. I'm merely pointing out to you how this could be misconstrued. You don't want us to charge her. You really don't want to take this there."  
  
Before his eyes, the older man crumpled and seemed to cave in on himself, his eyes suddenly flooding with tears as harsh, barking sobs rose from his chest, "Nicky, Nicky - I'm so sorry. I should have never left you. I'm so sorry!"  
  
Nick mumbled a few consoling words, even as his heart screamed, *It's too late for sorry, you pathetic fuck. Too goddamned late!*  
  
* * * * *  
  
"So, the murderer obviously took the victims clothes for a trophy," Grissom and Nick were back in the breakroom. The Steeply's had been gently escorted from the station about 20 minutes earlier, their interview over.  
  
Grissom had said nothing to Nick - yet - about his comments during the Interview. Nick wondered if he would, or if he had been professional enough in his demeanor to have gotten away with it. Everything he had said to little Nick's parents had been the truth. He knew it, Grissom knew it - Christ, even they knew it! - so maybe Grissom would just let it slide.  
  
"Do we have any idea yet what type of tree the switch used to whip him - violate him - with was used?" Nick asked.  
  
Grissom shrugged, "Waiting for Greg to arrive before we can check on that. Vincent didn't get around to running the tests today. We do know that whoever attacked him was a man. The DNA we retrieved from the body is all male."  
  
"Would a pedophile work like that, though?" Nick asked, frowning, "If it was a man, why didn't he rape him? Physically, I mean. Why use a stick, or a switch, or whatever it was?" His stomach rolled uncontrollably at the image, and he was glad he hadn't had anything to eat since the half-bowl of cereal he had managed to force down earlier that morning.  
  
"Good question, Nicky. Maybe we're not dealing with a pedophile."  
  
"No," Nick replied, voice grim, "we're dealing with a sick fuck."  
  
Grissom was about to respond when Warrick and Greg walked into the break room. Greg looked at Nick quickly, smiling tentatively. "How're you feeling?"  
  
"I've been better," Nick grunted. He was surprised that he actually managed a genuine smile at both Greg and Warrick when he said this. "Sorry I rushed out on you earlier. Thanks for taking care of me."  
  
Greg shrugged, looking slightly pleased, "What are friends for?"  
  
Warrick merely nodded as he poured himself a coffee, looking at the case file spread out on the table between Grissom and Nick. "I see Grissom put you back on the case."  
  
"Yeah. He did."  
  
Catherine breezed in, smiling. "Just made it! Nick - what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at home, in bed -"  
  
"I'm fine, Catherine. I wanted to come in." His tone was smooth, and he glanced down at his bandaged arm, "but I appreciate the concern." *Not really.*  
  
Grissom looked at his watch, "I suppose we should get going. Greg - I need you to tell me what type of tree the pieces of bark found with Nick Steeply's body is. Sara's in the computer room already; researching the MO of our murderer - seeing if maybe he's struck before somewhere else. Warrick and Cath - DB at the Palms. Brass is already there." He paused as he looked at his team. Nick was sitting hunched over the case file, face to blank to be believed. Grissom sighed. "Nick. We need to go talk to Jenny Letch again. See if there's anything she might have forgotten to tell us. You think you can handle it?"  
  
Nick nodded, "I can handle it."  
  
___________________________________  
  
Author's Note: Sorry for the dark subject matter. That's all I have to say. 


	7. REGRET

REGRET  
  
Nick shifted uncomfortably in the back of the Tahoe. Brass had decided to come with them instead of driving his own car, and Nick - like an errant child - had been relegated to the back seat. At least he could stretch out.  
  
Brass was his usual self - all gruff wry humor wrapped in a blanket of world-weariness. Normally, Nick enjoyed conversing with the older man. Brass' particular brand of sarcastic, dry wit often made the crime scenes a little more bearable. Brass actually reminded Nick of his Uncle Jack, also a career police officer. Uncle Jack had been an uncle by marriage; his favorite relative. Nick's father, on the other hand, had hated Jack. He didn't think a mere police officer was good enough for his baby sister, and he made no bones about it. Nick had been devastated when Jack and Aunt Becky had split after fifteen years of marriage, but the rest of his family had been relieved. Jack had been too gruff for them; too coarse and unrefined. He had stood out from the rest of them like brown sugar stands out against white. Probably one of the reasons Nick had like him so much. Uncle Jack had a heart of gold.  
  
He knew his father blamed Jack for Nick's foray into policing. He had hated the fact Nick had become a police officer, and even though he said all the right things in public, at home he had made it clear that he viewed Nick's career choice beneath him.  
  
Nick, as the oldest son of the Stoke 'family firm', had been expected to follow blithely in his father's footsteps and become a lawyer. His father had often told him that it was unfortunate he hadn't inherited the Stokes' family brains along with the good looks and the charm. 'If you had the brains to go with the package, you could become a career politician.'  
  
Shutting his eyes, he leaned his head against the back of the seat and tried to ignore the throbbing in his arm. A quick glance at his watch told him it was too early for more painkillers. He had told Grissom he didn't want to take them anyway, but he sure could use one right now.  
  
Brass twisted his head sideways and shot a concerned glance at the younger man. "You doing alright, Nick?"  
  
"Fine," Nick gritted out.  
  
"I ran into a pretty little thing earlier today - she was looking for you. She ever find you?"  
  
Nick cocked his head sideways, "Nope. When was this?"  
  
Brass smiled, "Oh - about 30 minutes ago. She seemed a little nervous; standing out front of the department. She asked me if a 'Nick Stokes' worked there."  
  
Nick shrugged, "Well, she didn't come looking for me." Despite himself, his interest was peaked. "What did she look like?"  
  
"Cute. Green eyes, black hair, shoulder length. Athletic looking. Nice figure. Ringing any bells?"  
  
"Not at all. She didn't give you a name, did she?"  
  
Brass grinned, "Nope. Just said she was an old friend from Texas. Maybe she didn't want to disturb you at work. I pretty girl like her could be distracting. I thought maybe she was an old girlfriend, looking you up."  
  
Nick shook his head, "Not if she's from Texas." His tone was rueful and sad, and Brass cocked a semi-amused eyebrow at him.  
  
"Sounds like either you broke someone's heart, or someone broke yours."  
  
"Let's just say I don't think many people in Texas remember me with fondness, and leave it at that," Nick replied. He caught a brief flash of Grissom's eyes as he looked at Nick in the rearview mirror, and immediately regretted releasing that little nugget of information. The concern Grissom had been trying to hide since Nick had shown up at work earlier was back. Nick winced and shut his eyes. Grissom had questions. It was just a matter of time before he started asking them.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The babysitter - Jenny - wasn't at all as Nick had remembered her from the prior evening. Last night, when she had opened the door at the Steeply's; her caustic words ringing in his ears and the battered image of little Nicky still fresh in his mind, he hadn't been able to see past his impotent rage. The haze of anger and pain that had been his constant companion for the last several hours had exploded - directly at this kid, standing on the door step of her house, looking so pathetically young and broken Nick wanted to cry.  
  
She had answered the door at Brass' insistent ringing, face translucent and pinched. Her eyes sunk like bruises into her pale face, and her demeanor was listless. She barely acknowledged the men on the doorstep, although her eyes had flickered with emotion when she glanced at Nick, touching on his face lightly before filling with shame and unbearable guilt.  
  
Her father - a man whom Nick had not met the night before - didn't look much better. His face was a map of sorrow and anger; shame and impotent sadness. He looked at the three men blearily, before inviting them to the kitchen.  
  
"We just have a few questions to ask," Grissom began, "and we hope that Jenny might have remembered something or someone."  
  
"You can ask her, but I doubt she has. Have you talked to her boyfriend at all? Maybe he might have seen something."  
  
Grissom merely nodded, "I spoke with his parents. They're bringing him to the station later to talk to us. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions before I speak with your daughter?"  
  
Nick noticed that Jenny flushed when her father mentioned her boyfriend, and he sighed. * Nothing like having your father find out you're sexually active during a murder investigation that you're linked to.*  
  
He studied her covertly as she nervously picked at her fingernails. Nick felt another hot spurt of empathy for the kid. He knew what guilt was like and this girl was drowning in it.  
  
Grissom was conversing quietly with Mr. Letch, his voice soothing and calm. Nick wasn't really paying attention to what the two men were talking abut. Instead, he leaned forward in his chair slightly, propping his elbows on his knees. "Jenny," he kept his voice purposely gentle, so unlike the tone he had used when he spoke to her last night, but she still flinched when she heard it.  
  
"Jenny."  
  
She looked up at him, eyes wide and brown and swimming with tears, slight shoulders tense and braced for another verbal assault. "What?"  
  
"I wanted to apologize for what I said to you last night," he whispered. "I had no right to talk to you like that. I just wanted you to know."  
  
"But it's true," she responded, voice hitching in her chest, escaping on a soft exhalation. "It's my fault. I killed him."  
  
Nick shook his head, sliding his chair closer to the girl. "You didn't know what would happen to him. Maybe what you did wasn't wise, but it wasn't malicious either. You didn't kill him."  
  
"I should be the one that's dead," she responded. "It should have been me."  
  
Nick didn't know how to respond. He knew that feeling - was intimately familiar with survivor's guilt. Reaching out hesitantly he placed a gentle hand on her knee. "I know what you're going through. I'd like to tell you eventually the guilt will just go away, but it won't. This tragedy will always be a part of you - it will affect you for the rest of your life."  
  
Jenny was nodding now, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. The other conversation in the room had ceased, but Nick barely registered the absolute lack of sound other than his own voice. "You have to learn how to live with this, Jenny. You can either let this make you stronger, or you can let it destroy you. It will be easier to let it destroy you, but it won't make things better. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"  
  
"Ye - yes."  
  
"Other people are going to blame you. People are going to talk about you and whisper behind your back. You have to stay strong and try not to let it affect you. You're going to learn pretty quickly who your friends are."  
  
Jenny nodded miserably at him. "I know."  
  
Nick twisted his lips, trying to smile but failing miserably. He reached into his jean jacket and pulled out a small notebook, quickly scratching something on it. "You're going to need someone to talk to; someone who'll understand. I don't think I can help you, but I know some people who can. This is my number - top is my cell, middle is my home, bottom is my pager. You call me whenever you're ready, don't worry about the time. Will you do that, Jenny?"  
  
Jenny took the proffered number and read it, a watery smile gliding briefly across her features, "I'll call. Thank you Mr. Stokes."  
  
Nick returned her smile, briefly. It was the first genuine grin to grace his face in 36 hours. "Nick. Call me Nick."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Grissom remained strangely silent on the drive back to the lab. Brass kept shooting funny looks at Nick from the front seat, but kept his own counsel. Nick pretended to be asleep. He knew he was in for another Grissom lecture and only hoped his boss would wait until they were back in the office, preferably behind closed doors, before he said what he had to say.  
  
Grissom probably thought Nick was going crazy, and Nick wouldn't blame him. He had been riding a fucking emotional roller coaster lately. And just when he thought he had hit the peak and hurtled through the worst of it, another peak rose in front of him.  
  
There was so much emotion bubbling around inside him right now, he didn't really know what to feel except numb. The anger was still there, sure, bubbling just below the surface. The guilt - well, that was something Nick was so used to he could almost ignore it. Almost. This deep bone-aching regret was new; as was the strange empathy that had sprung from him out of nowhere for young Jen Letch. He was still trying to puzzle that one out. He didn't understand it himself.  
  
"Nick. My office." The Tahoe rolled to a stop. They were pack at the lab. Nick sighed, *Grace period is over.*  
  
He trudged behind Grissom and Brass, shoulders hunched and hands buried in his jeans pockets, mind running through the various things he could say to Grissom when the older man chided him about giving out his personal phone numbers to that kid. He didn't think telling Grissom to mind his own fucking business would be overly politic right now. He smiled grimly.  
  
As they entered the building, Brass shot him a commiserating look before heading down the hallway to see if the boyfriend - Clay Peters - had arrived with his parents yet. Nick quirked a half-smile at Brass and shrugged.  
  
He wasn't surprise when Grissom went straight to his office, shutting the door behind Nick when the younger man followed him in.  
  
"So," Grissom began, "mind telling me what that was all about?"  
  
Nick shrugged, "That girl's on the edge, man. I was just trying to help her out."  
  
Grissom pursed his lips and sank into one of the empty seats in front of his desk, motioning for Nick to sit down. "I don't need to tell you what you did was a serious breach of protocol?"  
  
Nick shook his head, "I know." Nick dared a quick glance at Grissom, before looking away. "I just - part of the way she's feeling is my fault."  
  
"Couldn't you have just stuck to the apology?"  
  
Nick shook his head, "No. And don't ask me to explain, because I can't."  
  
"Can't or won't?" Grissom retorted.  
  
"Take your pick."  
  
Silence again, this one longer and more complicated. Nick swore he could almost hear the mental gears of Grissom's brain clicking away. When he thought he wouldn't be able to take the silence anymore, Grissom looked at him.  
  
"How do you know what she's going through?"  
  
Grissom's question caught Nick completely off guard. He stiffened suddenly, before carefully masking his face and pasting on his good ole boy smile. "I read. I study the human condition. I made an educated guess."  
  
"I don't think so, Nicky," Grissom sighed. "There's more to it than that. I just haven't figured it out yet."  
  
The sudden knocking on the closed door made both men jump. Grissom sighed in irritation, running a hand through his curls before acknowledging the knock.  
  
"It's open."  
  
Brass stuck his head in the door. "Clay Peters is here with his parents. And Nick, the lady I told you about earlier is waiting in the lobby for you. Says her name is Marsha."  
  
Nick blanched at the name, before turning an angry red. Marsha. Pete's ex- wife. "I don't want to see her," he responded flatly. "Tell her to go away and leave me the fuck alone."  
  
_____________________________________________________ 


	8. MARSHA

MARSHA  
  
Marsha Middleton had known this wasn't going to be easy. She had already been in Vegas for three days - three tense days - trying to build up the courage to come see Nick. She didn't know why she needed to see Nick after all these years, but the first person she had thought about when she learned of Pete's death had been him.  
  
What did you say to someone after five years of silence? How did you open yourself up to the potential hurt of being rejected; scorned? Her mind drifted back to the day she and Pete had been married - she had been so happy, so serene with the knowledge that she was making the right decision. The music had started, she had drifted down the aisle of the little church, practically floating on a cloud of white satin and lace. Pete had been so handsome in his tux, beaming at her as she came towards him. And then her eyes had drifted to Nick, met his even gaze and smiling regard, and her heart had stopped - or at least it had seemed that way. She had realized with stunning clarity as Pete reached out a hand to envelope hers, that while she cared about Pete, she loved Nick.  
  
*How the hell did this happen?* she remembered thinking, even as she smiled at her husband to be. *It must be nerves, that's all. You love Pete, Marsha. Pete!* The urge to flee, to turn tail and run back down the aisle had been great, but she had stayed where she was. The minister had asked the proper questions, made her 'repeat after him', and had solemnly proclaimed 'I now pronounce you man and wife'.  
  
And she had known, with brutal clarity, that she had just made the biggest mistake of her life. She had just married the wrong man.  
  
Of course, she managed to push these thoughts aside. Had smiled and laughed, accepting hugs and kisses and handshakes from the myriad guests they had invited, and tried to convince herself that it was just her imagination. After the dinner reception, she had danced with Pete and her father, before being swept away by Nick.  
  
"You look stunning, Marty," he had teased, "absolutely beautiful."  
  
"You don't look so bad yourself, Nick. And I wish you wouldn't call me Marty," she had managed to respond.  
  
Nick had just grinned at her, eyes serious, "You've made Pete really happy, you know. He's like a brother to me. Please take care of him."  
  
Her eyes had filled with sudden tears, "I will. I promise I will."  
  
His hand splayed at her waist had branded her through her dress, and she had shut her eyes against the sudden aching wail that had filled her. *What have you done? What. Have. You. Done!* She hoped Nick would think the tears suddenly sliding from the corners of her eyes were tears of joy. "You're a good friend, Nick. Pete's best friend."  
  
"He's lucky that he saw you first," he had responded, squeezing her waist gently, "He always was the lucky one."  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
"He doesn't want to see you," the gruff voice immediately in front of her startled her from her reverie, and she jumped. "He asked me to tell you to go home."  
  
Brass. Captain Brass. That was his name. Marsha felt the sudden heat of tears, the thick cloud of regret choking her, and shook her head mutely. "I need to see him. It's important."  
  
Brass looked at her momentarily, judging her, weighing her, before sighing. "He's on shift right now. He won't be done for a while. I've delivered my message, and that's all I can do. If you sit against this wall here, he won't see you on his way out later on. You might be able to talk to him then."  
  
Marsha nodded her head jerkily, attempting to smile, "Thank you."  
  
The older man shrugged, "Don't thank me. The mood he's been in lately - might be better if you left like he wants you to."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Clay Peters was a typical 18-year-old jock. Nick had the disturbing feeling he was looking in the mirror, seeing himself as he had been as a senior in high school. The kid sat at the table in the interview room sullenly, a disdainful sneer curling his lips even as his eyes were fearful. Nick stifled an annoyed sigh.  
  
Beside him, Grissom shifted in his seat when Brass walked into the room. "Good, you're here. Let's begin, shall we?"  
  
After quick introductions, Grissom started asking the regular questions - You heard about Nick Steeply? - We know you were with Jen Letch at the Steeply house? - Did you see anyone suspicious? Notice anything odd? - The list went on.  
  
Beside Peters, his parents sat stoned-face and disapproving. His mother's face had curved into a disagreeable little smile when Jen Letch's name had been mentioned, and Nick could have sworn he heard her whisper, 'Little slut'. He wanted to smack her.  
  
Clay's responses had been equally predictable - Yes, so, No and No.  
  
Nick had flexed his hands into fists, and turned towards Grissom, waiting for Grissom to notice him. "Can we talk outside for a second?"  
  
Grissom tried not to look surprised, nodding briefly. He and Nick quickly stepped out into the hallway.  
  
"Let me talk to him." He made the statement point blank, no working up to it. Before Grissom could object, he had held up a hand. "Hear me out - we need to get his parents out of there. He's not going to offer anything with them sitting beside him. Take them into the side room and let them watch through the one-way mirror. I'm younger -closer to his own age. I remember - vividly - what 18 was like. Let me talk to him."  
  
Nick could see the mental gears clicking in Grissom's mind, "Trust me, Grissom."  
  
Three little words - *Trust me, Grissom* - yet they were so important. Nick felt like he was holding his breath waiting for the response, trying to bank down the anger and pain of the last few days, trying to convince himself that it didn't really matter if Grissom trusted him or not.  
  
Grissom sighed and nodded, "Okay."  
  
* * * * *  
  
It hadn't been as hard as Grissom had anticipated getting Mr. and Mrs. Peters to leave Clay alone with Nick. They had refused at first, of course, but it had been Nick who had convinced them.  
  
"He might not be comfortable talking with you here," Nick had pointed out calmly. "You were eighteen once, Mr. Peters - would you want you're parents to know what you were up to with your girlfriend at that age?"  
  
Simple question, but it had sealed the deal. Mr. Peters had nodded curtly and had stepped out of the room, Mrs. Peters following meekly behind him.  
  
The two now watched their son from behind the one-way mirror. Brass stood patiently out of earshot in the room, at the doorway. Nick and Clay had moved to the far end of the table.  
  
Grissom watched the younger CSI intently. He could read the young man like a book lately, and knew that Nick was still angry. About what, Grissom didn't really know - but he knew it was more than this case. When Nick had asked him in the hallway to trust him, agreeing to do so had been one of the hardest things Grissom had ever done. It's not that he didn't trust Nick to do his job - he did. But Nick wasn't himself, and the last thing the department needed was for him to snap and do something stupid - like get rough with the Peters boy or make another accusation similar to the one he'd thrown at the Letch girl just yesterday.  
  
Grissom had realized, however, that Nick wasn't really asking him to trust him on just this one matter - Nick was asking Grissom to trust him, on everything. How could Grissom say no? He didn't know what Nick was going through; didn't know what the problem was. He hoped that by placing his trust in Nick, Nick would return the favor and tell Grissom what was going on.  
  
"What time did you arrive at the Steeply house last night?"  
  
"After football practice - so around 7:30."  
  
"Nick was still home?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Why did you and Jen send him out?"  
  
Clay shifted, embarrassed and uncomfortable, "You know why, man."  
  
Nick smiled grimly, "Guess I do." He paused for a moment, studying his hands intently, "What time did you leave?"  
  
"Around 10:00."  
  
"Did you see anyone at all when you went to the Steeply house, or when you left?"  
  
Shrug. "A couple of kids from school. They were on their way home."  
  
"Where did you see them?"  
  
"They were on the corner of Madeira and Madison."  
  
"Did you talk to them at all?"  
  
"No. We hang in different crowds."  
  
"Names?"  
  
"Uh. Eric Minet and Samantha White, I think."  
  
Nick nodded, but didn't say anything. Clay started squirming.  
  
"It's not my fault the kid died."  
  
"Didn't say it was," Nick responded.  
  
"I just - I just -"  
  
"Wanted to get laid."  
  
Clay sighed, "Yeah. I didn't think anything would happen to him." The younger man looked at Nick, tears welling in his eyes. "Poor little kid."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Nick sighed heavily as he poured himself a coffee. Brass was hunting up addresses for the two kids Clay had seen the night Nick Steeply went missing. The corner of Madeira and Madison was less than a block away from the park. Maybe they might have seen something.  
  
Grissom was watching him. It made Nick nervous.  
  
"You handled that nicely, Nicky."  
  
Nick smiled faintly, "You surprised?"  
  
Grissom shrugged, "You have been a little unpredictable lately." The tone of his voice was gentle, but the words still stung. Nick stiffened defensively.  
  
"I already apologized for that. Isn't it enough?"  
  
"I'm just worried about you, Nick. Everyone is walking around you on eggshells - not sure what they're going to say that may set you off."  
  
"I'm not a firecracker," he ground out. "I was out of sorts yesterday and this morning, but I'm coming to terms with it. Things are getting better." The words were unconvincing, even to his own ears. He sighed suddenly, and looked at Grissom, wondering if the older man could see the emptiness he was trying to hide.  
  
Grissom returned his look, face inscrutable, before shaking his head, "I wish you would trust me enough to tell me what's going on."  
  
Nick quirked his lips bitterly, "Trust me, Grissom, you don't want to know." Reaching into his jean jacket pocket, he quickly grabbed his painkillers, "Christ, my arm hurts. I'll be glad when this shift is over and I can go home to bed."  
  
Grissom recognized that Nick was trying to change the subject, and sighed, before looking at his watch. "It's almost midnight. We won't be talking to anyone else tonight about this. Why don't you go home? Meet me back here around 9:30, and we'll go with Brass to talk to Minet and White at the highschool. You look exhausted."  
  
"What if -"  
  
"Nick, go home. The rest of us can handle anything that pops up. Take you're pager, just in case, but go home."  
  
Nick smiled grimly, "I look that bad, huh?"  
  
Grissom smiled back, "Worse."  
  
* * * * *  
  
She could here him coming down the hall. His voice was still the same, drawling and deep and husky. Someone had hollered at him, "Hey, were you going so early?"  
  
And she had heard him respond, "Griss is sending me home. Thanks for the help last night, Greggo."  
  
Marsha stood nervously, smoothing her hands over her hair and hips, trying not to hold her breath, as she stepped out into the main hallway from the small sitting area, directly into his line of vision.  
  
Nick froze, mid-stride. Marsha smiled at him weakly.  
  
"Hi, Nicky."  
  
She flinched when his eyes flicked over her contemptuously, a strange mixture of coldness and angry heat. "Didn't Brass tell you to leave?"  
  
"He did, but I wanted to talk to you."  
  
"I don't want to talk to you." He continued walking down the hall, brushing past her in his haste, face tight. Marsha turned quickly and followed him out the main entrance and into the parking lot.  
  
"Nick. Nicky, please!"  
  
"Go away, Marsha."  
  
"Please, Nick."  
  
He was at his truck now, fumbling for his keys, shaking with anger. "I don't want to talk to you."  
  
"Pete's dead, Nick." Her voice was a whisper.  
  
Nick visibly flinched, before turning to glare at her. "You think I don't fucking know that already?"  
  
Marsha felt like crying, "Please, Nick. I came all the way from Texas to talk to you."  
  
"Should have called first, I'd have saved you the trip," his voice was harsh, but he was still looking at her. His eyes glowed like wet obsidian in the muted lighting of the parking lot.  
  
"That's why I didn't call," Marsha stepped closer to him, reaching out a hand but pulling it back before she touched him. The man standing in front of her wasn't the Nick she had known. He was harder, more brittle, and - if at all possible - even more wildly attractive to her than he had been five years ago. "Please Nick, just give me an hour."  
  
Nick glared at her, "Fine. One hour - and then get the fuck out of Las Vegas and don't come back. Coffee shop?"  
  
She shook her head, "No. I need to talk to you privately. We could go to your place?"  
  
Nick sighed, "Fine. You have a car?" When she shook her head, he leaned across the cab of his truck and pushed the door open, "Get in."  
  
* * * * * *  
  
The drive back to his place had been incredibly tense. Nick hadn't said two words, but she could feel his eyes flicking over to her every once in a while. She could feel the anger radiating off him in waves, and wondered - not for the first time - if she was doing the right thing.  
  
His house was nice, but she would have expected as much. He always had been meticulous. Pete had often teased Nick about his obsessive neatness. "You should have been a woman, man!"  
  
It had been a running joke among the three of them. Pete was a slob. Nick and Marsha often commented to each other that without her to look after Pete at home and Nick to look after him at work, he would have been crushed to death under all the junk he tried to accumulate long ago.  
  
She followed Nick into his kitchen silently, watching as he grabbed a beer from the fridge, before he turned to her. He didn't offer her one.  
  
"Why are you here, Marsha?" His voice was harsh.  
  
"I wanted to explain to you - why..what.why I left Pete."  
  
"I already know. And why should I care, anyway? It's been five fucking years."  
  
"You only know what Pete told you. You never bothered to ask me."  
  
Nick shrugged, and took a swig of his beer, "What were you gonna say? Can't take being married to a cop? So sorry?"  
  
Marsha sighed, "I left him because he was doing drugs."  
  
The words hit Nick like a bomb. "What?"  
  
"He was using. I couldn't - I didn't know what to do. I didn't know him anymore. I was scared, and I had to get out."  
  
Nick shook his head, "Bullshit. You would've told me. He didn't start using until after you left him."  
  
"I tried to tell you, Nick. The last few months I was with him. I told you I needed to talk to you alone, but you never made the time. I only ever saw you when Pete was there. How could I tell you when he was around? And after I left him, you wouldn't return my calls."  
  
Nick slumped into a chair, "He told me he started when he was undercover working Manny's case."  
  
Marsha shook her head, "Not true. He was using way before then. I was afraid - I thought - maybe you were using too, for a while. And then, when Ford died - and all that stuff in the paper. I wanted to talk to you, but I couldn't. You're parents wouldn't tell me where you were."  
  
"You talked to my parents?"  
  
Marsha nodded, miserably, "I told them I needed to talk to you, and they told me I couldn't. You'd moved, and they refused to tell me where."  
  
"Fuck." Nick replied. "How did you find me?"  
  
"Pete," Marsha whispered. "I went to see Pete last week, the day before he -. He called me, asked me to come see him. So I went. He told me you were in Las Vegas."  
  
The kitchen fell silent for a few moments, before Marsha cleared her throat nervously, "He gave me something to give to you."  
  
She reached into her purse and pulled out a letter, sliding it across the table to him. Nick closed his eyes against the familiar scrawl of Pete's handwriting across the white envelope. *Nicky Stokes*  
  
"I sent him letters, you know. Tried to visit him a couple of times." Nick's voice was soft. He picked up the envelope, fingering the edges, "He sent all the letters back. Never let me see him."  
  
"I know. He told me," her voice was just as soft, gentle and sad. Nick glanced at her and saw she was crying, "He told me he missed you."  
  
Nick felt tears, hot and thick and salty, fill his own eyes. "It's my fault he's dead."  
  
Marsha shook her head, "It's not your fault. It's his fault. You can't blame yourself, just like I can't blame myself."  
  
"I should have turned him in, forced him to go to rehab. I should have talked to you."  
  
"I should have made you listen," she gave Nick a watery smile, "I shouldn't have given up." She slid her chair across the floor, listening to the scrap of metal on tile as she moved closer to him. He still held Pete's letter in his hand. "You going to read that?"  
  
Nick shook his head, "No. Not ready yet. Maybe later." He looked at her suddenly, and the pain in his eyes was almost more than she could bear. "He was my best friend, Marty. I - let him down."  
  
Marsha tried not to smile when Nick used her old nickname, "He let you down. He let me down. It's not your fault, anymore than it is mine."  
  
She leaned forward and placed her hand on the one he had sitting on the table, smiling when he turned it palm upwards, twinning his fingers with hers. His thumb absently stroked the back of her hand between her thumb and forefinger. "I missed you, Marty."  
  
"I missed you too, Nicky."  
  
The tension between them shifted subtly as they spoke. It was no longer taut and tense with anger and impotent rage, but heavy with unspoken words and guilt and long-buried affection.  
  
Nick looked at their hands intently, enjoying on a visceral level the heat and weight of her small palm against his own. He HAD missed Marsha; had missed her quick wit and intelligence and her exotic beauty. She had always been the most attractive woman he had ever met; but Pete had claimed her first, and Pete had loved her, and Nick had been happy for him.  
  
Marsha leaned a little closer, "You're the only one I've ever let call me Marty." Nick's brown eyes met her hazel ones, searing her to her very core. Her free hand traveled up to his face, her palm rubbing against his jaw, enjoying the rough scrape of stubble. "No one else is allowed to call me Marty."  
  
Nick closed his eyes, trying to hide the sudden arc of electric need tearing like wildfire for his system. *Your ex-best friends ex-wife* his mind whispered. But her hand on his face felt so good, he could feel her heat radiating through his system, filling the voids that had been burned away by anger with pure unadulterated lust.  
  
He cleared his throat and put the letter on the table, before covering her handon his face with his own, "I should take you back to - where are you staying?"  
  
"The Desert Palms," she whispered back. Her breath was warm against his face, and he opened up his eyes to clash with hers, mere inches from his own. She was practically in his lap.  
  
"Marty -" his voice was thick with warning. She cut him off.  
  
"I wasn't completely honest with you earlier, Nicky. About why I left Pete," she whispered. "The drugs - they were just the final straw. I left him mostly because I realized I didn't love him as much as I loved you."  
  
Nick dragged air into his lungs, before forcibly exhaling, "What?"  
  
"I love you. I wasn't sure - I mean, it's been five years. A lot of anger and pain and regret under the bridge. But it's still there. I have never stopped loving you."  
  
Nick didn't know how it happened, but suddenly she was on his lap, straddling him. He was gripping her face tightly, kissing her with such ferocity it was primal. Her hands were in his short hair, fingers scratching through his scalp. She tasted of Crest and coffee and a sweetness that was uniquely hers. Nick could feel the tears seeping from her eyes trace his palms like a benediction. Pulling from her mouth briefly, his traced his lips over the warm saltiness, before returning back to her mouth. Deep in her throat, she was making little mewling sounds. Nick growled, and released her face to travel down her back and under the rim of her jeans, fingering the edge of her t-shirt before he lifted it and dragged it in a tangle over her head.  
  
He could feel the heat at the juncture of her thighs pressed against him, and felt like he was going to spontaneously combust. Shrugging roughly out of his jean jacket he jerked to his feet, strong hands cupping her bottom as she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist. He barely made it to his bedroom.  
  
His jeans hit the floor with a soft thud, mingling with hers as they pooled around her feet. A couple of the buttons on his shirt skittered across the floor as Marsha hastily fumbled with them, before riding her palms across the smooth expense of his chest and over his nipples. Her bra tore as Nick, tired of struggling with the little hooks at the back, just ripped it off her and tossed it to the side, followed quickly by her underwear.  
  
Laughing and breathless, hands everywhere, mouths nipping and licking each other, they sank into his bed. He almost cried out when his body slid into hers, and he shut his eyes tightly against the tears. He could feel Marsha surrounding him, arms and legs gripping him as tightly as her body, hips rolling underneath him, so unbearably hot Nick felt like he was being burned alive - purged and cleansed, the conflagration of passion and redemption he found in her arms enough for now.  
  
__________________________  
  
Author's Note:  
  
Thanks for all the great reviews and emails on this story - I really appreciate the input, as always. For Sylphide and EricB - just to point out, Brass was actually a career officer (according to the CBS website) before becoming the Forensics Supervisor. That's why, when he was demoted with the Holly Gribbs incident in Pilot, he was sent to Homicide.  
  
Only a few more chapters to go - resolution to the case, some more Nicky angst, yada yada yada. 


	9. RIPPLES

RIPPLES  
  
*What the fuck had he done?* Nick was sitting in his truck in front of Grissom's townhouse. He had been sitting there since 4:30 am - five hours before he was supposed to meet the older man. But he had had to get out of his house.  
  
He had barely slept a wink last night. What had happened with Marsha had been - well - mind blowing didn't quite cut it as far as descriptions went. And Nick felt like hell. Guiltier than sin. He had slept with his best friends' ex-wife.  
  
And there hadn't been much sleeping involved.  
  
At 4:00 am, he had slid noiselessly out of his bed and headed to the kitchen. His body had been lethargic and boneless, relaxed in a way his mind was not. His head had been spinning, his thoughts tumultuous. Of course, he had slept - all too briefly, his body sated, Marsha wrapped around him. For a few brief moments, Nick had been absolutely content. Lying in the dark of his room, the incredible smell of her burning itself into his brain, the easy weight of her arms and legs branding his skin, the silky feel of her hair against his chest - it had all coalesced into a pure shining moment of absolute peace.  
  
Of course, that hadn't lasted. After two minutes of lying there, listening to her breath, the doubts had assailed him, followed by the guilt, followed by the anger. He had stiffly slid out of his bed, pulled on the first thing he could find, and headed to his kitchen seeking refuge.  
  
And then his rational mind had intruded.  
  
*What the fuck was that, Nicky-boy? You just fucked Marsha.*  
  
* * * * *  
  
What the hell was wrong with him? Nick just didn't know anymore. He never knew from one second to the next what he was going to feel; how he was going to react to things. Nick let his head slump against his chest, and closed his eyes momentarily.  
  
He had just left her there, in his bedroom, warm and rumpled and sexier than any woman had a right to be. Nick was concentrating very hard on not feeling the imprint of her body still burning his skin. His arm was pulsing, the stitches burning and aching, but the rest of him was so goddamned relaxed it was almost insane.  
  
He couldn't recall the last time he'd been laid. Scratch that - he could remember - he just didn't want to. The experience had been pleasant enough, but the morning after - that had been hell. He sighed as he thought of Kristy. No wonder he hadn't been able to think rationally when Marsha had crawled onto his lap - he wasn't a goddamned monk, and two years without sex was a bit much. No wonder he had accepted what she was offering.  
  
What had she said to him? *I love you, Nicky.* Nick sighed. Wouldn't that be something else? How long had it been since someone had loved him? He knew for damn sure that no one had said that to him in years.  
  
How many times had Marsha told Pete the exact same thing? How many times had she whispered to him in that husky drawl of hers *I love you Pete?*  
  
It didn't bear thinking about. On the kitchen table, the letter she had given him still sat. *Nicky Stokes * Pete's familiar handwriting seemed to mock him; the letters of his name dark and accusing. *Nicky Stokes.*  
  
Nick had slid a hand to the envelope and traced his fingers lightly over the writing. *I didn't mean to do it, Pete. I didn't mean to sleep with her. Seems I'm apologizing to you an awful lot lately.*  
  
He had felt the letter folded inside the envelope, and briefly debated opening it up and reading it. Flipping it over, he looked at the sealed edge and sighed. He couldn't do it yet. He didn't want to know what Pete had to say to him. He didn't want to read the accusations.  
  
He should never have brought Marsha back to his place with him - should have insisted on going for a coffee like he had originally suggested. Christ, she was something else. He still remembered the first time he had met her. Her hair had been longer then, straight and sleek, so shiny and black he had a hard time believing it was real. And her eyes - one minute green as emeralds; the next as deep a brown as a Hershey's kiss. He had been attracted to her from the get go - but she was Pete's girl. She was Pete's girl, and Pete's girl she would remain.  
  
The day she and Pete had gotten married had been one of the worst days of his life. As the best man, he was happy for his friend. As a man, he wasn't so happy. He didn't know when the attraction he had felt for Marsha had turned to something deeper, but it had. After the wedding, Nick made sure he was never alone with her. He made sure Pete was always there before he went over. Seeing her with him had been torture; but at the time it had been better than not seeing her at all. So, he pretended to be just her friend, and never once hinted at the turmoil inside. He made sure he was never alone with her, and he tried to convince himself that what he was feeling was just infatuation.  
  
When the marriage had started breaking down, Nick hadn't known what to think. He had felt conflicted - he had even briefly entertained the thought that maybe this was his chance. The disloyal thoughts had shocked him, and he had vowed to back Pete fully. He had avoided Marsha like the plague, despite her calls. Stupidest thing he had ever done. If he had spoken with Marsha, he would have known about the drugs months before he actually had found out. Ford would still be alive. Pete would still be alive.  
  
The guilt alone would destroy him.  
  
He couldn't sit in the kitchen anymore.  
  
Rising to his feet, he had gone back to his bedroom, silently pulling on the pair of jeans he had discarded in his rush to bury himself in Marsha, and wandered out of his house. He hadn't even left her a note to tell her where he was going. Hell - he hadn't even known where he was going. That's why he was so surprised when he had ended up parked in Grissom's driveway. He wondered idly if Grissom was home, before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out Pete's letter. He didn't know why he had grabbed it before he had left, but he had.  
  
Leaning backwards in his bucket seat, he dropped the letter and shut his eyes. He was so tired; and yet not. He was so relaxed; and yet - not. He felt like he had been eviscerated and reassembled from the inside out. How could a man be angry and peaceful at the same time? Guilty and sad; but happy? After days of feeling like he was losing himself, he was finally back on track - picking up the bits and pieces and putting them back together. The question was - would he be the same man when all was said and done.  
  
The sudden tapping on his window made him jerk forwards with a startled yelp. Grissom. "Nicky - what are you doing here?"  
  
Nick could hear him through the glass, and he smiled grimly, before opening his door. "I don't know. You just getting home?"  
  
Grissom sorta smiled, "Yeah. " He looked at the younger man, his concern evident in his eyes. "You alright?"  
  
Nick nodded his head, absently. "I think so," he responded. "I just - I do trust you, Grissom."  
  
Grissom blinked, momentarily nonplussed by this statement, before responding gently, "You ready to tell me what's going on?"  
  
Nick nodded, "You got coffee?"  
  
* * * * *  
  
Grissom's kitchen was spacious. The open air concept of his living space was remarkably well thought out - Nick liked it. Sitting at the kitchen table, watching Grissom putter around with the coffee percolator, Nick wondered idly how the man could remain so silent.  
  
Since entering the townhouse, he had barely spoken to Nick. Nick realized that Grissom was trying to set him at ease - to make him comfortable - to give him time to collect his thoughts. It was one of the things Nick appreciated most about Grissom; he didn't push. He merely waited.  
  
Finally, the coffee was finished. Pouring two large mugs, Grissom doctored them both liberally with a shot of Bailey's, before sliding one to Nick.  
  
"Figured you might need something a little stronger than coffee," he offered. "So, Nick. Where do you want to begin?"  
  
Nick shrugged. Now that he was here, he didn't really know what to say. All he knew was that he needed to talk to someone who would listen to him - without interruption, without judging. He sighed.  
  
"You're the smartest person I know, did you know that Grissom?" Nick began. He smiled slightly at Grissom's non-response.  
  
"You know I used to be a police officer, right? Well - a couple of days ago, I found out my ex-partner had died. He killed himself - drug overdose - Federal State Prison." Nick watched Grissom intently as he spoke, willing his voice to remain emotionless.  
  
"Was he a guard there?"  
  
"No. An inmate. He was an inmate there," Nick's voice was scratchy. "I put him there." The story spilled from him in a jumble after that - Pete and the drugs; Ford's death - the DA who had been happy to send Pete to jail, despite the lack of forensic evidence.  
  
"He's the reason you became a CSI," Grissom interrupted once, softly.  
  
Nick merely nodded. "I thought that maybe I could - help him, somehow. But he wouldn't let me. I tried to visit him, so many times. I wanted to talk to him. I don't know what I thought I could do, but - he was my best friend, Grissom. It's my fault he's dead."  
  
"It's not," Grissom's response was calm. "He chose to do what he did. From the sound of things, he could have cleaned up - with support from you; or from Marsha. But he chose not to. He lied to you and then he blamed you for his actions. You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved."  
  
The two men sat in silence for a few minutes, Nick finishing off the last of his coffee. Grissom studied him. His intense regard made Nick squirm a little bit.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You ever throw stones into lakes when you were a little kid?"  
  
Nick gazed blankly at Grissom, before responding, "Who hasn't?"  
  
"The stones create ripples, and the ripples change the face of the water - expanding outwards in ever widening circles, until the ripples subside."  
  
"Your point?"  
  
"The ripples might disappear, but the stone is always there. The people in your life are like stones, Nick. Some of them cause bigger ripples than others, but eventually the ripples are gone. It's the memories of the ripples that remain; just like stones in a pond."  
  
Grissom's tone was gentle, "Do you think the stones sitting at the bottom of a lake feel guilty?"  
  
"I get what you're saying, Grissom."  
  
Grissom smiled at the younger man across from him, "Dare I say you look a little less tense?"  
  
Nick smiled humorlessly, "Is that a good thing?"  
  
"You tell me. You feel better?"  
  
"Yeah. I do. I'm just - I'm so tired of being angry, Grissom. And guilty. The guilt is killing me. What am I going to do about Marsha?"  
  
"What do you want to do about Marsha?"  
  
Nick smiled suddenly, "I don't know."  
  
Grissom looked at his watch. "It's only 6:00. You don't have to meet me at the station for another 3 ½ hours."  
  
"Right. I'll go talk to her, then."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Marsha woke to a silent house, and she knew immediately that Nick was no longer there. Burrowing under the sheets she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, reveling in the slight tangy smell she so closely associated with him. He was a man of habit, and even though she had gone five years without seeing him, she was not surprised that he still wore the same cologne.  
  
She could just imagine what he must be thinking right about now. Probably in an all out panic; wondering what he was going to do, and feeling guilty because they had slept together. She smiled in semi-amusement, tinged with slight exasperation, and wrapped her arms around his pillow. She wondered if he was coming back, or if the events of the last few hours had spooked him so much that he planned on staying away all day.  
  
He was still loyal to Pete, still torn apart by what had happened - that much was obvious. To be perfectly honest, she was amazed by the fact that she was even here. She wondered if it would be as easy to find a place in his heart as it had been to find a place in his bed.  
  
Nick had changed a lot over the last few years. She had often thought that the REM song 'Shiny Happy People' had been written with him in mind - he had been such an optimist, with a charming innocence about him that was disarming in a grown man. He wasn't a shiny happy person anymore - or at least, not like he had been. The patina was still there, but it had faded. Interspersed amid the glimmers of the Nick she had known, a harder man existed - one not so quick to laugh, or smile; nor so quick to trust. It was like the joy which had always seemed to be in him had been leaked out. She didn't know where the old Nick ended and the new Nick began, but she wanted to find out.  
  
She heard the soft snick of a door opening up and smiled, stretching languidly as she rolled over and looked at the clock - 6:30 am. He had come back. She listened intently as she heard the muted shuffle of his feet on the floor, heading down the hallway - left turn into the kitchen. Muted hum of the refrigerator as the door opened; soft suctiony sound as it closed.  
  
Sitting up, she scanned the bedroom and smiled when she saw a t-shirt hanging off the back of a chair. She recognized that shirt - she had given it to him for his birthday the year she and Pete had been married.  
  
The collar was badly frayed, the color - once a vibrant red was more of a pinky gray - but the seagull with the bloodshot eyes and the joint hanging from its' beak was still visible - as were the words:  
  
**  
  
Did you hear about the guy who gave drugs to seagulls?  
  
He left no tern unstoned.  
  
**  
  
She huffed a laugh softly as she slid the shirt over her head, smiling as she remembered Nick's crazy laughter when he had opened the gift.  
  
"I don't think a Narc should be promoting excessive drug use for birds," he had grinned as he had tried on the shirt. "This is perfect - really, Marty. Perfect."  
  
Padding down the hallway, she headed towards the kitchen. Nick was leaning against the counter top, watching the coffee percolator.  
  
"Hey."  
  
He turned at the sound of her voice and smiled briefly, "Hey. I hope I didn't wake you."  
  
"No," her response was gentle, "I was just wondering where you went to."  
  
"I needed to - uhm - talk to my boss. I was - confused. Want a coffee?"  
  
Marsha nodded and slid out of the doorway into the kitchen, fingers nervously playing with the hem of the shirt, just skating her mid-thigh. "Are you still confused?"  
  
Nick sighed, "Yeah. What was last night all about, Marty?"  
  
Marsha shrugged, "I wasn't planning it, if that's what you're asking."  
  
Nick grinned at that, "Doesn't it - what would Pete think?"  
  
"Pete hasn't been part of my life for five years, Nick. I don't really care what he would say. But I don't think it would bother him." When Nick snorted, she stepped closer, brushing a hand up his side, "After all, he asked me to find you."  
  
"I don't think he planned that through very well," Nick replied, his lips quirking slightly. He turned and studied her intently, before reaching out and tracing her shoulder with his thumb. "I always wondered what you would look like in that shirt."  
  
"And?"  
  
"I think I like you better out of it." Nick smiled when Marsha's breath hitched in her throat and she moved in closer to him. The hand that had been gently stroking his side slid up his chest, her knuckles coming to rest just under his chin. "I wasn't lying when I said I missed you, Marty," he whispered, "I just needed to think for awhile, is all."  
  
"And?"  
  
"I think I'm tired of feeling guilty. I'm tired of being lonely. And, I'm tired of missing you." 


	10. FATHER AND SON

FATHER AND SON  
  
Nick was running a little late. He didn't even make it to the office until 9:40, and was cursing under his breath as he quickly parked his truck and hurried into the building. Hopefully, Grissom wouldn't give him any grief about his tardiness - after all, the reason he was late was Grissom's fault. He's the one who told him he needed to talk to Marsha.  
  
Nick ran his hand across the back of his neck, smiling slightly. Marsha - Marty - was still at his place, wearing his t-shirt. Maybe she'd climbed back into his bed and was sleeping again - hair spilling darkly around the pillow cases. She had said she would wait for him to return - sometime later in the day, after he and Grissom had talked to Eric Minet and Samantha White at the high school.  
  
Grissom was standing in the hallway outside his office, talking with someone. From the back, the man looked strangely familiar. Nick slowed down as he got closer - a tight knot forming in his chest as he realized exactly who the other man was.  
  
"Hello Father."  
  
Nicolas Garrett Stokes III turned to look at his son, cocking an eyebrow as he took in Nick's still damp hair, t-shirt and slightly wrinkled jeans.  
  
"Nicholas. You're looking - disreputable, as always."  
  
Long awkward silence. Nick looked at Grissom in dismay - *What's he doing here?* - but the older man merely shrugged his shoulders. Nick looked back to his father and sighed. As always, the man cut an imposing figure - part of it due to the obviously expensive and tailored suit he wore, part of it due to the fact that he practically dripped 'old-school wealth'. His hair was artfully silvered at the temples, his face remarkably unlined for a man in his late 50s. People had often commented on how much Nick looked like his father, and he had always hoped it wasn't true. He wondered if his eyes had ever been that icy and disdainful.  
  
His father was studying him coldly, obviously waiting for Nick to speak. Nick gritted his teeth, and instead turned to Grissom. "Sorry I'm late, Grissom."  
  
Grissom glanced at the younger man oddly, "Only a few minutes, Nicky - don't worry about it. I was doing paperwork anyway."  
  
"You always were irresponsible," his father interjected, "Never on time for anything."  
  
Nick felt his gut tighten and coil as he turned back to his father, "We all can't be as perfect as you, father. What are you doing here?"  
  
"You're mother was worried about you, Nicholas. You haven't been answering your phone. You haven't been responding to her pages."  
  
Nick sighed, "I unhooked my phones a couple of nights ago now and must have forgotten to plug them back into the jacks."  
  
"Well, isn't that just like you, Nicholas," his father commented, "you were always inconsiderate like that. Do you know what your mother has gone through, worrying about you? Thank God I had to come to Vegas anyway for a seminar, and was available to make sure you were still alive -"  
  
The derisive tone in his father's voice made Nick stiffen even more. He noticed with surprise that Grissom had also tensed up, inching slightly away from the wall and a little closer to Nick, subconsciously aligning himself with the younger man. Nick tried to smile at him, but his mouth was stiff.  
  
"I'll call mom later and let her know I'm alright. Lucky for me you were here on business, and checking to make sure I was alright wasn't too much of an inconvenience. As you can see, I'm still breathing. I'm sure that's a relief to you. Shall we get going Grissom? Brass meeting us there?"  
  
"We're not finished yet, Nicholas. I have approximately 45 minutes before I have to be at the first seminar. Plenty of time for us to -"  
  
"Listen - Mr. Stokes," Grissom cut his father off, "I'm sure you and Nick have a lot of catching up to do, and I'm sure Nick will be available to talk to you later. Right now, we have to get moving - we're meeting a colleague to interview a couple of potential witnesses to a crime, and we're already running late."  
  
"Where are you staying, father?" Nick asked, turning and noting with sardonic amusement the stunned look on his father's face. It wasn't often he was cut-off mid-sentence.  
  
"I'm staying at Les Suites," his father finally responded. "I expect you to meet me there for dinner this evening - I'm finished with the seminars at 8:00. Wear a suit - I'm assuming you have one?"  
  
Nick felt his ears turn red, but managed to keep his voice remarkably calm, "My shift starts tonight at 8:00, so dinner is out of the question. Perhaps we can have a coffee together back here, if you're interested - unless I'm called out to a crime scene. Then we might have to forego."  
  
"Not very hospitable, Nicholas. I'm sure Mr. Grissom can be persuaded to let you take a few hours to have dinner with me." Both men turned to look at Grissom, Nick's face vaguely pleading and his father's arrogantly expectant.  
  
Grissom sighed and shook his head, "Actually, Mr. Stokes, any other night it wouldn't be a problem - but tonight I'm going to be short staffed, and Nick and I are working a major case together - one, as you can see, we're already working overtime on. I'm afraid a coffee break is as good as it's going to get. Now, if you don't mind, we really have to get going."  
  
"Sorry, father. I'll talk to you later," Nick offered, as he turned and followed Grissom down the hallway, weirdly elated that for once his father hadn't gotten what he wanted.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Nicholas Garrett Stokes III watched as his oldest son turned on his heel and followed his boss down the hallway and out the door of the lab. Grabbing his cell phone out of his pocket, he quickly punched in his wife's office number, smiling grimly when she picked up the phone.  
  
"Well, he's still alive, if that's what you were worried about," he greeted her, "He just unhooked his phones."  
  
"How does he look, Garrett?"  
  
"Like he always looks when I see him - pissed off and tense."  
  
He heard his wife sigh on the other end, "What did you say to him?"  
  
"I told him you were worried when you couldn't get hold of him."  
  
"And, what about you?"  
  
"What about me?"  
  
"Did you tell him you were worried too?"  
  
"What purpose would that serve, Mary? He wouldn't believe it. I told him I was here for a seminar," the older man walked out into the parking lot and headed towards his Mercedes rental.  
  
"So, instead of telling him the truth - that you were worried and wanted to see him, you made up some seminar? So now he thinks the only reason you stopped by to see him is because you were there anyway."  
  
Garrett sighed, running a hand tiredly over his face, "That's about it, Mary." The car beeped when he pressed the key tag to unlock the doors, and he slid into the leather interior and rested his head against the backrest. "When did it get so hard?"  
  
"Perhaps when you stopped treating him like a son and started treating him like a project," his wife's words were gentle, but they still made Garrett wince. "You have to make this right, Garrett - whatever the problem between you and Nick has been in the past, you have to make it right. I want my son back."  
  
"I want him back too. But I don't know if I can fix this, Mary. There's too much water under the bridge. You know the first thing I said to him when I saw him this morning? I told him he looked 'disreputable'," Garrett sighed, "I wanted to hug him, and instead I insulted him. What's wrong with me, Mary?"  
  
"You're scared," his wife replied, "and it's understandable. You haven't exactly gone easy on him, and he has every right to be angry at you. But our son is a good man, Garrett - he'll forgive you, if you ask him to. Tell him you're sorry. Talk to him. Tell him you love him."  
  
"I asked him to have dinner with me - he said he couldn't - has to work."  
  
"Then have lunch with him."  
  
"He'll wonder why I'm not at my seminar," Garrett snorted at this, "Christ, Mary."  
  
Mary laughed gently, "Tell him you made the seminar up because you wanted to see him. It's a starting point. Where are you right now?"  
  
"I'm in the car, in the parking lot where he works. He probably won't be back for a while."  
  
"So, what are you going to do?"  
  
"I guess I'm going to wait for him to come back."  
  
"And?"  
  
"I'll talk to him - without turning into my father. I'll make things right again, Mary. I swear I will. I really do love him."  
  
He could feel Mary's gentle smile reach out through the phone and wrap him in warmth, "I know you do, Garrett. I know you do."  
  
Hanging up the phone, he reached into his pocket and withdrew his wallet, flipping it open until he found what he was looking for. It was an old picture, yellowed with age, rubbed smooth around the edges. Sliding it out of the protective plastic, Nicholas Garrett Stokes III smiled into the gap- toothed grin of his oldest son at seven years old. His baseball hat sat askew on his head, his front teeth missing, and a fine dusting of freckles sprinkled across his nose. In his hands, he was holding a fishing rod, and dangling from the line was a ridiculously small trout. Flipping over the picture, he read the child-like scrawl * My First Catch with Daddy! I love You! Love, Nicky *  
  
Hot tears blurred his vision, but it didn't matter. The words were burned in his brain. Nick had loved him once, a long time ago, before his father had failed him so miserably.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Grissom watched Nick covertly from the corner of his eye as the younger man fiddled with the radio. Earlier that morning, after Nick had shown up unexpectedly at his place and they had talked, Grissom had been sure he saw glimmers of the old Nick. Those glimmers were gone. Instead, angsty Nick was back. The younger man was tense and obviously unhappy, Grissom didn't even really know what to say to him.  
  
Finally, when he thought he couldn't stand the silence a second longer, Nick spoke.  
  
"Thanks for that. Back there, with my father."  
  
Grissom shrugged, "Not a problem. May I ask what that was all about?"  
  
"What what was all about? His attitude?" Nick's voice was grim, and he hunched his shoulders in on himself, "Or his general belief that God himself has nothing on him?"  
  
"He's just - he's not the type of person I would have ever pictured as your father."  
  
Nick snorted, "Well, that works both ways. I don't think I'm the type of son he ever imagined he'd have."  
  
Silence for a few minutes. Grissom weaved into the second lane of traffic expertly, waiting for Nick to continue. The younger man shifted in his seat until he was facing Grissom almost fully. "I come from a long line of lawyers. My - family - is like the Texan version of the Kennedy's. We're not as well-known outside the state, but in Texas? Everyone knows the Stokes. My father is a judge for the Texas Superior Court - appointed by George Bush himself, before he became President. My mother is a lawyer, all my sisters are lawyers - my youngest brother Vincent? Lawyer. I bucked the trend when I became a cop."  
  
"And?"  
  
"I left some things out when I talked to you this morning about Pete. My father was expecting to be appointed to the State Supreme Court around the same time Ford was killed. The press got hold of the fact that I was involved - linked me to my father - and voila - instant scandal. Father didn't get appointed until a few years later. He was already upset with the fact that I was a cop, but the whole thing with Ford and Pete - followed by me switching into the forensics unit - that was the icing on the cake. He pretty much laid down an ultimatum - either I shape up, get with the program and join the 'family firm', or I ship out. In other words, he disowned me."  
  
"But didn't you go home for Thanksgiving last year?"  
  
Nick shrugged, "Yeah, but I stayed with my sister. Dinner was at her house, so father couldn't very well kick me out. He just vacillated between icy contempt and searing diatribes against me, my job and the fact that I was letting the family down by not becoming a lawyer. Actually, Thanksgiving is the reason I unhooked all my phones the other night. Mom figured she'd start on the guilt three months in advance this year."  
  
Grissom sighed, "Nothing like mother-guilt."  
  
"Tell me about it," Nick agreed. "Last Thanksgiving was a treat I don't soon want to repeat. Between my father alternately ignoring me or lecturing me on duty, and my mother and sisters harassing me about when I was moving back to Texas, getting married and starting a family, I was never so glad to come home to Las Vegas. I couldn't handle two years in a row."  
  
"Why did your father come to the lab to find you, instead of going straight to your house?"  
  
"He doesn't know where I live. None of my family do - no one's come to visit me here, and no one writes me - they just call to harass me. He was probably hoping he could get an address from someone at the lab. And obviously, he couldn't call me to let me know he was here - my phones aren't plugged in."  
  
"Has he always been so -"  
  
"Proper? Judgmental? No - there was a time when I thought he loved me," Nick sighed suddenly and closed his eyes against the tightening in his chest, "but that was a long time ago. I haven't been the son he wanted since I was nine. I'm damaged goods."  
  
"Damaged goods? What's that supposed to mean?" Grissom's tone was soft. It was a good thing Nick had shut his eyes, affectively ending the conversation. The gentle concern in Grissom's eyes, along with the banked anger the older man still felt towards Nick's father, would have made Nick cry.  
  
_________________________________  
  
Author's Note: Shorter Chapter than normal. Just needed to get this in there lay some groundwork for an upcoming chapter. 


	11. LOST AND FOUND

LOST AND FOUND  
  
"I was expecting you a little earlier," Brass greeted Grissom and Nick as the two men entered the school. He had been loitering near the front entrance, drinking a coffee.  
  
"Sorry - got held up at the lab," Grissom replied, "You talk to them yet?"  
  
Brass shook his head, "Nope. Thought I'd wait for you two. Haven't even spoken to the principal yet."  
  
Nick looked at Grissom, "We should talk to them separately - they might remember more if they're not together. Or, they could contradict each other."  
  
"They're not suspects, Nick."  
  
"Yeah," Nick disagreed, "They are. Everyone is suspect, Grissom. You taught me that."  
  
Grissom and Brass looked at Nick in surprise, and Nick shrugged. "What? They were in the general vicinity. If we talk to them together, all they need to do is agree with what the other is saying. If we talk to them separately, any inconsistencies will be apparent. Just because they're kids doesn't mean they couldn't have done it - look at the Bulger case in England."  
  
Brass grunted, "It's just not like you to be pessimistic."  
  
"I'm not being pessimistic," Nick replied, "I'm being realistic. Don't you agree, Grissom?"  
  
Grissom shrugged, his expression carefully blank as he headed down the hallway towards what was clearly the main office. *Don't become too much a realist, Nicky,* he thought to himself, *the world still needs optimists to keep the rest of us pessimists in line.*  
  
* * * * * *  
  
Eric Minet was a tall kid. Really tall. Tall and gangly. Thinking back to his high school days, Nick winced. Eric was the type of kid the more obnoxious jocks would stuff into a locker, and right now he was nervous - very nervous. Sitting in the teacher's lounge, long limbs folded onto an uncomfortable plastic chair, he looked positively scared.  
  
"What - I don't know if I can help you," the kids voice was warbly as Brass introduced everyone.  
  
Standing behind Eric, the principal offered soothingly, "They just want to know if you saw anyone at or around the park the other night, Eric."  
  
"But shouldn't I have a lawyer present or something?" the young man protested, "or my parents?"  
  
"Why?" Grissom replied calmly, "Are you a suspect?"  
  
"No! NO. I didn't do anything to that kid."  
  
"What kid?" Nick asked silkily, shooting a look at Brass and Grissom, *See?*  
  
"The kid - that boy - Nicky Steeply."  
  
"How do you know that's why we're here?" Brass replied. "We never even mentioned the name of the park yet."  
  
Eric flashed a look at Brass, before eyeing the other men suspiciously, and shrugged. "It's all over the news, man."  
  
"Were you at the park that night?" Nick stared at the kid intently. Eric didn't respond. "We can find out, you know. If you were there, you've left pieces of yourself behind."  
  
The kid shrugged, "Yeah, yeah. I know - I watch all those detective shows on TV."  
  
Grissom smiled humorlessly, "We're not detectives. We're forensic scientists. Listen, we know you were in the general area that night - did you see anyone? Did you see anything?"  
  
Eric shook his head, "No. Nothing, man. I wasn't there. I didn't see anything." His tone was still shaky, with an edge of defiance to it; his demeanor as suddenly stiff as the arms he'd crossed tightly at his chest. Nick shot another look at Grissom and Brass, his mouth tightening.  
  
"I say we talk to the girl - Samantha White. And I think we should do it back at the station," he said grimly. Grissom nodded his head slightly in agreement, and turned to look at Brass. "Let's call Lockwood - we'll need a second squad car."  
  
* * * * *  
  
On their way back to the Tahoe, Nick reached into his jean jacket pocket and retrieved a small bottle of pills. "Antibiotics for my arm," he muttered at Grissom as he popped the top. "I forgot to take them this morning."  
  
Grissom frowned slightly, but didn't say anything. He didn't think Nick would take too kindly to a lecture on the proper use of prescribed medication. "How is the arm?"  
  
"Sore. Stiff." Nick flexed the fingers on his left hand, shrugging out of his jacket as they reached the Tahoe, quickly changing the subject. "You mind if we swing by my place real quick - I'll reconnect the phones."  
  
Grissom watched as Nick tossed his jacket in the back seat, noting that the gauze on his arm was starting to look ratty again. Several areas were tinged rust colored, and it was obvious Nick's wound was still weeping.  
  
"We can stop. You need to change that dressing on your arm while we're there."  
  
Nick rolled his eyes, before he looked at his arm and frowned. "Yeah - doesn't look too clean." The Tahoe remained silent for a few minutes, save for casual directions from Nick. Grissom was relieved when the younger man's cell phone rang.  
  
Nick scowled at the call display, "It's my mom."  
  
The phone rang two more times. "You going to answer it or just stare?"  
  
"Better answer it, I guess. I'm sure she's already talked to father." Sighing, he fumbled the phone open, "Hi Mom."  
  
Grissom leaned forward and turned on the radio, trying not to pay attention to Nick as he spoke. It was hard to do, in the small confines of the front seat. Even harder when he could feel the sudden tenseness radiating from Nick, and hear the harsh tone of his voice.  
  
"Yeah, I talked to him mom. Uh huh. Not since you talked to him, apparently. Right. Right. Listen, Mom - I unhooked the phones because I didn't want to be disturbed and - Well, yeah. I work night shift, Mom. You always call me in the middle of the day when I need to sleep."  
  
Nick sighed loudly, and shot a quick apologetic look at Grissom. Grissom had a carefully neutral expression on his face, but it was easy to see he wanted to smile. The corner of his mouth kept quirking upwards.  
  
"Listen, Mom. I'm working right now and - I told him I'd have coffee with him later on tonight. Lunch? No, I don't think so. Mom - mom - mom -okay. Fine. If he shows up, I'll have lunch with him, but I suspect he's too busy with his seminars." Nick snorted suddenly, "He wasn't worried. You may have been worried, but not him. No - sorry Mom - I'm not a little kid anymore; I know when you're trying to cover for him. Okay. Whatever - listen, I have to go. No - I'm going. Bye." Another sigh, but this time his voice softened somewhat, "I know, mom. I love you too."  
  
Grissom turned onto Nick's street as the younger man hung up. "Sorry, Grissom."  
  
Grissom half-smiled, "Why? We all have mothers, Nick - even me. I know what it's like."  
  
Nick smiled at that. "She tries so hard, you know. To fix things - to fix my father and I. She just won't give up."  
  
Grissom nodded and pulled into Nick's driveway, parking the Tahoe. "Because she loves you, and she loves him."  
  
Nick shrugged, "Love can't fix everything."  
  
"No," Grissom replied, "but it can make a lot of things more bearable."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Garrett Stokes was sitting in a chair at the front entrance of the lab, reading a newspaper, when Nick returned. Watching his son surreptitiously over the top of his newspaper, he studied him with concern. He had lost weight since last Thanksgiving - by all appearances at least 15 pounds. Nick had never been one to carry around spare flesh, but to Garrett's eyes he looked a little too skinny.  
  
The jean jacket he had been wearing earlier this morning was now slung over his right arm. Garrett noted the gauzing binding the forearm on his left arm that ran from wrist to elbow, and suddenly frowned. What had Nick done to himself this time?  
  
Of course, Nick spotted him when he was frowning, and immediately stiffened. Saying something to his boss, he jerked his head in Garrett's general direction. Mr. Grissom swung his gaze to Garrett, expression intent, before turning back to Nick with a reply.  
  
Nick shook his head negative, hands gesticulating for added emphasis, obviously agitated, before he stalked over to where Garrett was sitting. "Father. You're still here." The tone was remote and his eyes were impossibly shuttered.  
  
Garrett looked down at his paper, folding it precisely and calmly, before he stood, "Yes. I thought maybe we could get lunch together, since dinner is out of the question."  
  
Nick looked at his watch, "What about your seminars?"  
  
*Tell him, Garrett. Tell him the truth!* "A couple of the seminars were cancelled. Your mother told me to come and take you out to lunch."  
  
"Good ol' mom," Nick replied sarcastically. The two men stood in tense silence for a few minutes, before Nick sighed. "Fine. We can't be long, though. We have a couple of potential suspects coming in, and I want to be here when Brass questions them. Let me just tell Grissom where I'm going."  
  
* * * * *  
  
They ended up walking up the street to a small corner Bistro called 'Monarchs'. Well nothing to look at from the outside, Garrett was pleasantly surprised at the warm ambience when they entered and headed towards a small table at the back.  
  
"This is nice," he stated, as he sat down.  
  
Nick snorted, "What did you expect? A strip club?"  
  
Thick tense silence. A waitress appeared with menus and ice-water, and Garrett was happy for the momentary distraction.  
  
Across the table from him, Nick was scowling as he studied the menu. Garrett suddenly felt like crying, but he bit back the urge and opened his own menu. Neither man said anything until the waitress re-appeared to take their orders. Again, silence after she left.  
  
"Nicholas -" Garrett began, only to be interrupted by his son.  
  
"Nick. Nick, father. Not Nicholas."  
  
Garrett sighed, "Fine. Nick. Did you - have you talked to your mother yet?"  
  
"This morning. She called me." Nick offered no further information, smiling tightly at his father when Garrett looked at him.  
  
"Did you tell her about your arm?"  
  
Nick looked at the bandage, "Never came up."  
  
"What did you do to it?"  
  
"Sliced it open at a crime scene."  
  
"And?"  
  
"Had to get some stitches." Every answer was abrupt - to the point. Garrett sighed. This wasn't going to be easy.  
  
"Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?" Garrett asked.  
  
Nick shook his head, "I'm staying home for Thanksgiving." His reply was pointed, and Garrett tried not to flinch.  
  
"You know what I mean, Nicho - Nick."  
  
"I don't have a home in Texas anymore, FATHER." Nick replied. "I think I'm going to go back to the lab, now."  
  
"You haven't eaten."  
  
"I'm not hungry," Nick replied shortly, sliding to his feet. "Have a nice lunch." Nick had barely made it three feet away when his father stopped him.  
  
"Nick. I'm not in Las Vegas for a seminar."  
  
Nick twisted to look at his father, his face a mask of conflict, "Why are you here, then?"  
  
"I was worried about you."  
  
Nick snorted, but he came back to the table. "That's a first."  
  
"No, it's not." The tight burning in Garrett's chest was back. He looked at his oldest son, standing in front of him, and felt his heart twist. Nicholas - Nick - was stiff with repressed emotion. His jaw was clenched, causing his jawbone to stand out in prominent relief below the sunken hollows of his cheeks. And his eyes - those brown eyes, so like his own, stared down at him defiantly. Yet, beneath that defiance, if he looked closely, Garrett thought he saw fear. Fear and a brief flicker of hope.  
  
"It's not?"  
  
"I heard about Pete Middleton."  
  
Nick sank back into his seat and looked at his hands, drawing Garrett's gaze to them as well. He noticed that Nick's fingernails were bitten to the quick, the cuticles rough and torn, and sighed when Nick's rough voice penetrated his thoughts.  
  
"You came because of Pete?"  
  
"I came because of you. Because Pete was your friend. Despite everything, he was your friend."  
  
"Yeah," Nick nodded, "He was my friend."  
  
The two men were silent for a moment, lost in thought. The waitress arrived with their lunch, but they barely looked at it. "Your mom told me she wants her son back, Nick."  
  
"She never lost me," Nick replied softly.  
  
"Maybe not," Garrett responded, "but I did. I lost you." Garrett tried to smile when Nick looked up at him, eyes shining with unshed tears. And suddenly, Garrett knew what he needed to do. Reaching blindly into his back pocket, he pulled out his wallet and flipped it open, handing it to Nick.  
  
"You remember when you caught this?"  
  
Nick looked at the picture and tried to smile, "My first trout."  
  
"We went on a fishing trip - just me and you. Left Victor at home with your mother and sisters - he was too little to go camping. That first night, we pitched the tent and roasted marshmallows. It was August, and there was supposed to be a meteor shower."  
  
Nick nodded, "I remember. The Perseids."  
  
"That's right. We rolled open our sleeping bags outside and let the fire burn down, and stared up at the sky to watch them. You were afraid you were going to fall asleep and miss them. But you didn't. We stayed up all night watching the meteors and talking. And when dawn came, we went out into the middle of the lake in our canoe, and you caught the trout."  
  
"That was a great trip," Nick whispered softly.  
  
"Yes. It was." Garrett agreed. He watched as Nick mirrored his own movement from earlier in the day, sliding the picture out of the protective plastic and rubbing his finger over the image before flipping it over and reading the inscription.  
  
Sliding the photo back into the wallet, Nick slid it back to his father, "Whatever happened to that kid?" he asked sadly.  
  
Garrett looked at him intently. "His father let him down."  
  
Nick jerked his eyes to Garrett's face, noting for the first time the regret swimming in his fathers' eyes. "What?"  
  
Garrett shrugged, suddenly nervous. "I let you down, Nick. When you were nine. When you told me about what happened. I told you not to tell anyone else; that it would only hurt your mother. I tried to pretend it never happened. I was scared. I let you down."  
  
"But -" Nick tried to interrupt.  
  
"No - let me finish, while I still can. Do you realize that you never called me Dad after that night? You needed me, and I wasn't there for you. It's my fault - what happened. I wanted to go out. I told your mother things would be fine with the new girl. When you told me what had happened - I couldn't cope. I tried to hide it, and I made you feel ashamed - like it was your fault. And that's when I lost you."  
  
Garrett's voice was hoarse with suppressed emotion, and when he looked at Nick he saw his son was crying. "I don't blame you for hating me, Nick."  
  
"I don't hate you. I thought - I told Grissom this morning that you used to love me," Nick's voice was just as hoarse as his fathers, "but that I haven't been the son you wanted since - since I was nine."  
  
"You've always been the son I wanted," his father replied. "I just haven't been the father you needed. I'm so sorry, Nick. For everything. Is it too late to fix this?"  
  
Nick smiled at his father through his tears, forcing himself to speak through the thick lump in his throat, "I told someone today that love can't fix everything. But maybe I was wrong."  
  
_________________________________  
  
Author's Note: I'm very nervous about this chapter. If you all think it sucks, let me know and I'll remove it. Too much Cat Stevens + too many Smirnoff Ices, and this is what you get. At least I'm living up to the story title! 


	12. CONFESSIONS

CONFESSIONS

Garrett watched his son eat.  Or rather, he watched Nick as he pushed his lunch around on his plate, without actually physically putting too much of it in his mouth.  

"Are you going to eat that, or play with it?"

Nick half-shrugged, "I'm not really hungry.  I think I'll take it back to the lab with me and eat it later."

Silence.  Not a totally uncomfortable silence like earlier; fraught with tension and anger – a different type of silence, filled with questions and recriminations and – Garrett fancied – gentle words of reconciliation and hope.  Garrett heard them as clearly as if Nick was speaking to him.  But Nick wouldn't ask.  It was up to Garrett to start the rebuilding – and he knew it.  But now that he had opened himself up, he didn't know what to say.

Sighing, he looked down at his shrimp linguine and twirled some pasta around on his fork. He could feel Nick's intent gaze on him, waiting for him to say something. "I suppose you're wondering what's changed."

Nick nodded.  "The thought has crossed my mind.  I'm just – I don't understand – why now?  Why not when I was still in Texas?  Why not last year when I was there for Thanksgiving?  You're not – you're not dying or anything, are you?"  The last question was a whisper, and Garrett was gratified to learn that the thought of his death disturbed Nick.

"No.  I'm not dying."  He took a bite of his linguine, "I'm not that cliché, Nick.  You should know that."  Pause.  Beat.  "Did you know your mother left me about five months ago?"

Nick looked at his father in shock.  "She what?"

"Left me.  Or rather, kicked me out.  Told me to live elsewhere, and not to come back unless I was going to make an effort to change and to fix this situation I've created between us."

"I didn't know you and mom were having problems."  Nick was still stunned.

"We weren't, not really.  Our problem was you."  When Nick flinched, Garrett sighed. "I mean that in a good way, Nick.  She was getting tired of the distance between us.  She wanted to know why it was there, and I wouldn't tell her.  To this day, I have never told her about it – about the fact that I made you hide it.  

"Remember when you called back in the spring for your mother's birthday?  When you got off the phone with her, she told me you sounded sad.  When I didn't say anything back, she lost it."  Garrett chuckled at the memory.  "Your mother doesn't lose her temper that easily, Nick.  When she does, it's a sight to behold.  She doesn't yell.  She just gets deadly cold.  She grabbed me by the arm, marched me upstairs and told me to pack.  Told me to 'get the fuck out of her house'."  

Garret smiled again at Nick's shocked expression, "First time I ever heard her say the word fuck, too.  I knew she was serious.  When I asked her what she thought she was doing, she told me she loved me, but she couldn't live with me anymore.  She couldn't live with a man who couldn't be man enough to even talk to his oldest son.  She told me I could come back only after I made an effort to fix the estrangement between us."

"So, you're here for her," Nick couldn't keep the slight bitterness out of his voice. Garret leaned forward, looking at his son intently.

"I'm here for you.  If I had come five months ago, I would have been here for your mother.  Because, you know what Nick?  I realized your mother was right.  I'm the one that caused this distance between us, and I'm the one that needed to fix it."  He paused again, studying his hands intently, before he looked back to his son.  "I'm seeing a therapist."

If Nick was shocked before, he didn't know what to think now.  "A therapist?  You?  You've always thought they were quacks.  Psycho-babblers!"

Garrett shrugged, "Your mom told me I needed to talk to someone, and if it wasn't her it better be a professional.  So I went. We talked about you a lot.  And I realized some big things - that night, when I made you hide the truth… I thought if no one else knew we could pretend it didn't happen.  Life would go on as normal, and no one would need to know that I was a bad father.  But that's not what happened, is it?  

"You were always such a happy little kid, and all of a sudden you weren't anymore.  You stopped talking to me.  You stopped talking to your mother.  You became withdrawn.  Mary couldn't figure out why – but I knew.  I knew what it was doing to you, and I still hid it.  What happened – it wasn't your fault.  You were just a kid, Nick.  A little boy.  I am so sorry I did that to you."

Dead silence.  Nick was looking at the table.  "I thought you were ashamed of me.  I thought that I wasn't the perfect son anymore.  When you looked at me, I could see it.  The disgust.   The shame.  I didn't really understand what it was at the time, but I knew it meant you didn't love me anymore."

Garrett shook his head sadly, "I have always loved you, Nicholas.  The shame you saw in my eyes was my own shame, for failing you.  The disgust was my own.  Do you understand?  It was never you, Nick.  Never you."

The sudden sound of Nick's beeper made both men jump.  Relieved for something to do, Nick quickly grabbed his pager, "It's Grissom."

* * * * * *

Grissom looked at his watch surreptitiously when Nick arrived back at the lab.  Nick had been gone for almost an hour.  It wasn't as if Grissom begrudged him any time with his father, but after the events of the past few days – on top of the obvious tension he himself had noted between the two men – he had been concerned.  

Now, he wondered if that concern had merit or not.  Nick looked – different – somehow.  He was walking a little taller, if the truth be told.  And his father was still with him.  That had been a surprise.

Nick waved slightly when he saw Grissom studying him, before turning to his father and saying something to him.  Before the two of them walked down the hallway towards Grissom.

"Nick.  Mr. Stokes," Grissom murmured, "How was lunch?"

His question provoked an honest smile from Nick.  Not the big grins of the past, but a smile nonetheless.  "It was good, Griss.  Uh – is it alright if my father waits in the breakroom for us to talk to Eric and Samantha?  I'm assuming that I'll have a few hours this afternoon to go home and change before shift starts, and my father wants to see where I'm living."

Grissom cocked an eyebrow at this, but merely nodded.  "That's fine.  Just get a visitors pass for him.  Ecklie isn't here today, so no one should bother him.  The parents of those two kids arrived about 10 minutes ago.  Brass is ready to go when we are."

* * * * *

"I'm telling you, we didn't see anything at the park,"  Samantha White responded to Brass' question snottily.  Beside her, her mother sighed in equal exasperation and rolled her eyes.

"But you were in the park?" Brass replied.

"Yeah.  I already told you that.  Can I go now?"

"What time would you say you were there?" Grissom inserted.  

The teen looked at him with barely concealed hostility, "I already _told you we were there from around 9:30 to 10:30.  Just Eric and I.  No one else."_

Nick leaned forwards, hands on his knees, and smiled grimly when the girl looked at him.  "That's interesting, Samantha.  Because Eric says you weren't at the park at all.  He says you weren't anywhere near the park."

That shut the girl up – for all of ten seconds.  Nick could see her mind frantically racing before she widened her eyes at him in confusion, "You did say two nights ago?  Tuesday?"

Samantha's mother interrupted, "Sam, honey – Tuesday was three nights ago."

"Oh – well then – there's the confusion.  I thought two nights ago was Tuesday.  We were in the park Tuesday night."

Nick cocked an eyebrow at Grissom and Brass, mouth tightening.  "Eric told us you haven't been in that park for a few weeks, Samantha."

Dead silence.  The girl looked at Nick, before turning to Grissom and Brass and back to Nick again.  "Okay.  So what?"

"So what?  A kid is dead, Samantha.  And we have a reliable witness who saw you and Eric at the bus stop near the park a little while after we estimate this kid died.  If you know something – if you saw someone – tell us."

Samantha's mother looked shocked, "Is this about that Steeply kid?  My daughter doesn't know anything about that!  I'm surprised you're not talking to that Letch girl – she's the one that was looking after him."

"Slut," Samantha muttered.

"If anyone's to blame for what happened to that boy, it's her!" Samantha's mother agreed bitterly.  "She's just like her mother – no morals."

Nick looked at Mrs. White contemplatively.  "Why would you say that?  Do you know the family?"

"Know them?  We were neighbors for years.  The girls used to be best friends in elementary school.  We went on vacations together."

"So what happened?" Brass asked.

"What happened?  Her mother ran off with my husband – that's what happened.  Upped and moved to California with him two years ago."

* * * * * *

Eric Minet was sitting nervously beside his father in the other interview room.  Nick stood to the side of the table, arms crossed without saying anything, as Brass took a seat across from the kid.  Beside him, Grissom opened the case file and started casually flipping through the reports.

"So.  Eric."  Brass began, "We seem to have a discrepancy of statements here."

"How – what do you mean?"

"Well, Samantha says you were at the park the night Nick Steeply was murdered," Brass replied.  Beside his son, Mr. Minet sat up a little straighter.

"She – she did?" Eric gulped.

"Yeah.  She did.  We want to show you some pictures, see if they might jog your memory," Grissom replied, sliding a couple of the less graphic 8 x 10s across the table top.  

"Jesus," Mr. Minet muttered, blanching as he glanced at the flayed chest of the little boy,  "Jesus."

"We know you were there, Eric," Nick muttered.  "And from what Samantha White has said, you were there the same time Nick Steeply was murdered.  So, if you didn't see anyone else at the park that must mean you did it."

Eric was looking up at the ceiling, away from the pictures, breathing deeply.  "I didn't.  I didn't.  It wasn't me."

"Who then?" Nick whispered.

"Samantha.  She did it.  She killed him."

"Why?"

"Because she hates Jen.  Nick said Jen kicked him out of the house because her boyfriend was coming over, and Samantha just snapped.  We'd all just been sitting on the swings talking, but when Nick said Clay Peters was there, Jen went berserk. She started screaming at Nick, about first her father, now Clay.  She just started hitting him."  Eric looked at his dad, eyes pleading, "I'm sorry dad.  I didn't know what to do. I didn't want her to hurt him.  He was a nice kid."

"Did she mean to kill him?" Brass asked.

Eric shook his head dumbly, "I don't know.  She kicked him in the stomach, really hard.  He started choking.  And then he was dead.  We didn't know what to do."

Nick reached over and grabbed the case file from Grissom, tossing the rest of the crime scene photos on the table.  "Who did that?" he demanded, pointing to the top photo of Nick Steeply, his skin ripped open across his chest from the switch.

Eric was crying now, silent tears of remorse and shame rolling down his face.  "She told me we would both be blamed for it if we were caught.  Said we had to make it look like he was attacked by a pedophile.  So we carried him into the crawl pipes and took off his clothes.  She got a branch from a tree in the park and whipped him with it.  She used it to -"

"Sexually assault him."  Nick's voice was deadly.  "Well – she was right about one thing.  You're both responsible for this.  Where are his clothes now?"

"She took them.  I don't know what she did with them."  Eric turned to his father again, "I'm sorry, dad.  I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

His father just looked at him, his face ravaged with grief and disbelief.  "I can't believe it," he kept muttering, "Tell me you didn't do this, Eric."

Brass stood, "Believe it, Mr. Minet.  I suggest you get a good lawyer for your son.  Eric Minet, you're under arrest for the murder of Nick Steeply."

* * * * *

It was late afternoon before Nick was finally able to leave the lab.  Samantha White and Eric Minet had both been arrested for the murder of Nick Steeply.  Brass had been working on a search warrant for the White home to see if they could locate the boys' clothes when Grissom had told Nick to go home.

"Your father is still waiting for you in the break room," he had said. They were both in Grissom's office, waiting for Brass.  "Jim and I can handle the search.  You doing okay?"

Nick nodded, "I'm just glad we found them.  And I'm glad he was dead before he was assaulted.  Somehow, it makes me feel better.  The poor kid suffered enough without having to go through that too."

Nick's voice was so matter-of-fact that Grissom paused and looked at him. "No one should have to suffer sexual assault – especially not children.  It's heinous.  But you know that, don't you Nicky?"

Nick's troubled gaze shot to Grissom's concerned blue, before he nodded weakly, "I guess I do."  The admission was shocking in its simplicity and horror.  Grissom swallowed thickly.

"That explains a lot."  His voice was so gentle, Nick felt as if he was going to cry.

"I never told anyone about it.  Just my father," Nick whispered.  "He told me to forget about it – pretend it never happened.  Not to tell my mother.  I was nine.  It was my babysitter."

"Oh, Nicky."

Nick looked up and sighed, "That was easier to say than I thought it would be," he admitted.  "How did you know?"

Grissom shrugged, "I knew there was something more going on than just what you told me about Pete and Marsha.  I've never seen you react so strongly to a case before – the comments you made about the victim being cursed because his name was Nick.  What you said to the babysitter.  You threw up in the morgue when Al said he'd been raped.  It all adds up.  And if you told your dad and he tried to pretend it never happened – I can understand why you have problems."

"He's seeing a therapist, you know," Nick replied.  "He wants to make things right between us."

"Can he?"

"Maybe," Nick nodded, "People aren't perfect.  We all make mistakes.  At least he's willing to try to make things right.  I'd like to be part of a family again."

"You're already part of a family here," Grissom responded.  

Nick rubbed a fist across his eyes and smiled at Grissom, "Thanks, Grissom.  I know that."

"If you ever want to really talk about it, I'm there for you Nick.  Anytime you need me."  Grissom cleared his throat, his own eyes suspiciously moist as he smiled at the younger man.  "Now – you're father's waiting for you.  And didn't Marsha say she was going to wait for you at your place when you re-plugged your phones earlier?"

Nick nodded, "Yeah.  I forgot she was there, actually.  I better get going. I'll see you in a couple of hours, Grissom."

Grissom shook his head, "No.  Take your pager.  If I need you, I'll page you.  Otherwise, consider this a night off.  It's been a long day."

"I thought we were short staffed tonight," Nick half-smiled.

"We were – as long as you needed an excuse to avoid your father."

__________________________________________

Author's Note:  This story is obviously winding down.  What happens with Marsha?  What happens with Nick and his dad?  What did Pete's letter say?  All will be revealed in the next two chapters.  I'm serious about this – I know I said back at the beginning this story would only be three chapters long, and I know I lied.  But this time, I'm serious.  Only two chapters left.  Please R&R – let me know what you think.


	13. DAD

DAD

Grissom watched Nick as the younger man headed down the hallway towards the break room.  His mind was still reeling from the information Nick had revealed to him, and his heart felt as if it was being torn in two.  Retreating back into his office, he allowed himself to sink back into the chair behind his desk, sighing as he opened his desk drawer and pulled out a crumpled wad of pink paper.  One would think that after his many years as a Forensics investigator, with his prior experience as a coroner, it would be hard to shock Grissom with much of anything.  But this – information – that Nick had revealed to him had shocked him.  Scratch that – it hadn't just _shocked him – it had hurt him. _

 He had known, of course, that there was more to Nick's story than what the younger man had revealed to him earlier that morning.  It seemed more than mere hours ago Nick had told Grissom about Pete, and the role Nick felt he had played in his friend's self-destruction.  But this – he had suspected something serious – but sexual assault?  Nick was stronger than anyone, including Grissom, had ever given him credit for.

 Grissom knew what it was like to be abandoned by a father.  His own had left so long ago he was barely even a memory anymore, but Grissom knew what that pain was like.  Despite the fact that Grissom had tried to pretend that his father's desertion didn't affect him, it had.  

He had been angry for a long time about it, bottling it all inside, denying to anyone who asked that he even missed his father.  But he knew that was not the case.  He had missed his father – or at least, he had missed the idea of having one. Still did, if he were to be really honest with himself.  His mother had never been the same when his dad had gone.  His leaving had almost destroyed her –  the yelling and fighting had stopped, but so had his mother's laughter.  When his father had disappeared from his life, Grissom had lost more than just the man – he had lost his family – such as it was.  And in his father's wake a lonely boy and a shell of a woman had remained.  Grissom had vowed then to never love anyone as deeply as his mother had loved his father, because he never wanted to be hurt as badly as his mother had been. 

In effect the same thing had happened to Nick.  His father had abandoned him – maybe not physically, the way Grissom's had; but emotionally.  Nick's father had cut his young son adrift at a time when Nick had probably never needed him more; a time when he was scared and vulnerable and desperately in need of some type of shelter.  The thought of it made Grissom wince.  Both men had – strictly speaking – grown up fatherless.  But where Grissom had tried to lock out emotion to avoid being hurt, Nick hadn't done so.  And despite the turmoil of the last few days – the deep-seated pain he knew the younger man still felt; the grief, the guilt, the anger – Grissom realized he envied Nick.  Nick could feel.  He could cry.  Most important of all, despite everything that had happened to him, Nick knew how to forgive.

Smoothing out the crumpled paper, he looked at the message Judy, the front receptionist, had given him over a week ago.

*Grissom – your dad called.  Call him. Here's his number*

Grissom, of course, hadn't called.  Hadn't wanted to open up that particular can of worms.  But he hadn't been able to throw away the message either.  His eyes were burning.  Picking up his phone, he looked at the message intently, before punching in the numbers now engraved in his brain.

After almost 40 years of silence, he still recognized the deep timbre of his father's voice.  Shutting his eyes, he thought of all the ways this could go wrong, all the ways just talking to his father could hurt him, but he forced himself to respond. *If Nick can do it, so can I.*

"Hi.  It's Gil.  I got a message to call you."

* * * * * * * *

Marsha Middleton had been in the kitchen when Nick had shown up earlier that day with his boss to re-plug his phones.  She had slipped back on the t-shirt she had been wearing earlier – the one with the stoned seagull – and had been eating a toasted bagel with strawberry jam in the kitchen when Nick had strode in, followed by an older man.

Nick had quickly introduced them, exhorting Grissom to sit down while he grabbed the first aid kit from the bathroom.  Marsha had tried to act nonchalant about being caught in Nick's shirt, in Nick's kitchen, looking disheveled and sleepy, and had made small talk with the man as Nick had quickly plugged the phones back in.  He had seemed nice enough, in a quiet way – and Marsha had been glad to note the banked affection the man obviously had for Nick. Grissom had slid into an empty seat across from Marsha, studying her intently as he did so.

"Nick told me a lot about you."

"He did?" she tried not to let her shock show, but didn't think she fooled Grissom at all.

The older man merely smiled at her and nodded, "This morning, when he came to my place.  I'm glad you were still here when he got back.  I'm glad you're still here now.  He needs someone around who understands what he's going through."

Marsha had tried not to blush, as she smiled back at him.  "I'm glad I stayed too."

When Nick had returned to the kitchen with a first aid kit, Marsha had watched as Grissom had carefully removed the heavy gauzing wrapped around Nicks' arm, gently cleaning the rather nasty looking wound before carefully redressing it.

"Have you had your antibiotics yet?  I don't remember you taking them this morning."

"Yeah, Grissom – I had them.  I'm due for more after lunch.  Don't worry – I listened to what the doctor said," Nick had replied.

"That's not something to fool around with Nicky," Grissom had replied mildly.  "I should have made you go to the hospital when you first sliced it."

"Not your fault, man. And I wouldn't have gone."

"I thought you told me it was just a scratch," Marsha had interrupted the men, her voice carefully neutral despite the obvious severity of Nick's wound.  Nick looked at her, smiling broadly when he saw the jam covered bagel half-eaten, sitting forgotten on her plate.

"So I under-exaggerated a little.  You going to eat the rest of that bagel?" he teased.

"After seeing your arm?  No way," but she smiled as she slid the plate towards him, "You have the rest."

"Nick?  I think we're done here – you ready to head back to the lab?"

Nick nodded and flexed his fingers, "That feels better, Grissom.  Thanks."

"No problem.  Listen, I need to call Brass about something – give me five minutes before you come back to the Tahoe.  Nice to meet you, Marsha."

"He's nice," Marsha remarked, as she heard the soft click of the front door as Grissom left.  

Nick smiled, "Yeah.  He's a good guy.  Probably better to me the last couple of days than I've deserved.  I've been acting like a dick."  He stood slowly, taking the two steps he needed to in order to be right in front of her.  "I wasn't sure if you would still be here or not."

"You asked me to stay until we could talk," she retorted, smiling as Nick crouched down in front of her, placing his hands on the soft skin of her thighs, sliding the hem of the large t-shirt up just a little.  "What else do you have on under my shirt?"

Marsha shuddered at the husky tone of his voice, "I borrowed a pair of your boxers, and threw my clothes in your washing machine.  Shouldn't you be going?"

Nick slid an errant finger along the inside hem of the cotton boxers, grinning devilishly at her as he did so, eyes flaring as she arched her neck back a little and closed her eyes briefly, "Grissom gave me five minutes.  He didn't need to call Brass – we just saw him at the school."

"Don't start something you can't finish in five minutes, then," she responded.  "I'll still be here when you come back -" she blushed at the forwardness of this statement.  "If you want me to stay, that is."

"I want you to stay.  I want you to be here when I read Petey's letter.  And we still need to talk."

Marsha's arms had drifted up to Nick's shoulders, and her hands traced patterns through the hair on the back of his head, fingernails scraping along his scalp. "I'll stay as long as you want me to, Nick."

"How long are you in Vegas for?"

"As long as I want.  I freelance now.  I can work from anywhere."

"Good to know," Nick replied, before reluctantly pushing himself up from his crouch.  "I guess my five minutes are up.  Don't want to take advantage."

Marsha rose to her feet as well, "No.  The sooner you leave, the sooner you'll come back."

Nick huffed softly at this, before leaning into her and kissing her gently, "I'll be home soon, Marty.  Why don't you go back to bed for a while so I can daydream about you."

* * * * *

Nick looked in his rear view mirror, and half-smiled when he realized his father was – indeed – following him to his place.  Grabbing his cell phone, he quickly dialed his house and grinned when Marsha picked up.

"Hi Marty – it's me.  Listen, I'm on my way home.  I just wanted to warn you – I have my father with me.  Yeah…no.  I didn't know he was coming.  I've told him you're there, so don't worry.  He'll be nice."  He laughed when Marsha responded with disbelief, "No, seriously.  He's – changed.  Or maybe I've changed.  Or maybe we both have.  I don't know – but when I told him you were there, he said he was glad you found me.  Yeah – that's it.  Just glad you found me.  I told him – you're staying, right?  With me?  For awhile, anyway.  Until we get this all figured out and…"  

Nick paused and listened, tilting his head to the side and glancing in his rearview mirror again.  "Yeah.  Steak, eh?  Hope you took enough out of the freezer for three.  So – what did you do this afternoon?"  Nick laughed out loud at her response, "Can't tell me for fear I'll drive off the road.  O – kay.  Now I'm really curious."  Nick laughed again, before clearing his throat, "You still have on my boxers?  Uh huh…under your jeans…the ones with the little Texas flags all over them?  A girl after my own heart.  Listen, Marty – I gotta go – see you in 10 minutes."

* * * * *

So far, Nick was relieved to note, things were going fairly smoothly.  After roughly 20 minutes of awkward conversation, Marty seemed to be relaxing somewhat; taking Garrett's presence with good grace.  For his part, Garrett had been very courteous to Marty, inquiring politely about her parents and her job and even going so far as to apologize – in a backhanded way – for not helping Marsha find Nick when she had called him for Nick's address.

"I'm glad you managed to find him," he had commented as Nick prepared the steaks for the BBQ. "I realize I wasn't very helpful."

Marty had smiled at that, cocking an eyebrow at Garrett, "You had your reasons."

"But they weren't good ones."

"Marty – you still like yours medium-well, or have you finally come to your senses and started eating them the way a real Texan should?"

"If you mean bloody and mooing when you stick a fork in it, then no.  Medium-well, no blood, thank you very much."

Garrett had smiled at that, "That's the way Mary eats her steak too.  The site of rare steak makes her slightly queasy.  So, mind if I take a quick tour, Nick?"

Nick had shrugged, "Go ahead.  I'll go do the steaks.  Marty -"

"Is going to escort me," Garrett interrupted, "Aren't you, Marsha."

"Uhm, yeah.  Sure," Marsha had shot a look at Nick as she followed Garrett out of the kitchen, smiling when he mouthed at her, 'He won't bite.'

So Marty had given Garrett a tour of Nick's house.

"I really like what Nick's done with the ceiling here," Garrett remarked as they entered the living room again.  "This is a nice house.  He's done well for himself.  How long have you been staying with him?"

*Here we go* Marsha had thought, smiling gamely as she gritted her teeth and responded, "Since yesterday."

Garrett nodded, "I really am glad you found him, Marsha.  Maybe you can help him come to grips with everything that happened five years ago.  I've been worried about him."

Marsha felt herself unthaw a little, "I've been worried about him too."

"He blames himself."

"Yes.  But it wasn't his fault."

"No.  When I heard Petey was addicted, I thought that maybe you were into – drugs – too.  That's why I didn't tell you where he was."

Marty started at this, "But I never was. I -"

Garrett held up a hand, "You don't need to tell me.  You're not that type of person.  I've come to realize over the last few months that I can't control Nick or his life.  I'm going to stop trying.  I knew five years ago that you were important to Nick.  I think you still are."

Garrett half-smiled at the expression on Marsha's face, "I promise I won't interfere.  I want to be part of Nick's life – not live it for him."

Marsha smiled at Garrett, "I do have to admit, I was surprised when Nick called me to tell me you were here.  In Vegas, I mean.  And coming here for dinner.  I know you haven't always had the best relationship."

"I needed to talk to him," Garrett responded.  "I'm just glad he invited me back to his place, especially after what I told him today.  Maybe he'll tell you about it one day."

"Dinner!" Nick hollered from the kitchen, effectively cutting their conversation short.  Garrett smiled at Marsha, and offered her the crook of his arm. "Tell me, why does Nick call you Marty?"

* * * * *

Dinner was good.  Less stressful than lunch had been.  Nick had smiled often, laughing and butting in as Marsha had explained to his father where her nickname had come from.

"So Nick said it wrecked his image as a ladies man to have a friend named Marsha – he said that whenever he mentioned me to another girl, the girl would always get jealous.  So he started referring to me as Marty, and his dates thought Marty was a guy and didn't get all miffed at him."

Nick interrupted, "That's the problem with women – they can't accept it when a guy has a platonic female friend.  They always suspect something else is going on."

Garrett had merely nodded, before shooting a wry glance at Nick, "Seems they weren't so wrong."  

Nick winked at Marty when she blushed and fumbled with her napkin, "Nope.  I guess they were right to be jealous."

"What was the case you were working on today with Mr. Grissom?"

Nick sighed, "A little kid was murdered.  We thought for a while we had a pedophile on our hands, but it turns out it was a couple of teenagers.  Sick case, really."

Garrett looked at Nick and frowned, "Is that the one they were talking about on the news today – the little boy who died in the care of his babysitter?"

Nick nodded grimly, noting the sudden distress in his father's face, "She wasn't involved though.  She's just a kid herself.  Just a case of bad timing, and being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"How did you – how could you investigate something like that without…" Garrett's voice was shaky.  Marsha looked at him with concern, before turning to study Nick.  The sudden undercurrents at the table were incredibly strong.  She didn't know what was going on, but she knew it involved more than just a case Nick was working on.

"It's okay.  I'm fine."  Nick's eyes were gentle as he looked at his father, "It's part of my job.  I'm okay - really."

"Nick -"

"Dad.  Really.  It's okay."

Garrett started when Nick said 'Dad', and felt his eyes tear up when Nick reached across the table and placed a hand gently on his own.  It was the first time Nick had reached out and touched him voluntarily since he had been nine.  Garrett looked at his sons' strong hand pressing against the back of his own, and smiled up at Nick.  

"You called me 'dad'."

Nick smiled, "I know."  His eyes were suspiciously moist.  Garrett chuckled wetly, and quickly wiped the tears from his own eyes.

"I think I've cried more today than I have in 25 years."

Nick grinned at this, even as he blinked back his own tears, "You and me both."

"You even have me crying," Marsha interrupted, dabbing her eyes as she smiled tremulously at the two men, "and I have no idea why!"

* * * * *

Nick stood in the driveway long after his father had left.  He could still feel the strength of his father's hug, tight around his shoulders, could still hear his father's husky voice as he said, "You really can forgive me, can't you?"

Rubbing a hand against the back of his neck, Nick went to his truck and quickly opened it, grabbing Pete's letter.  He figured it was time to face the last of his demons.  Looking towards the front door, he could see Marty standing there, watching him.  Clutching the letter tightly to his chest, he moved towards her.  "I have Petey's letter.  Want to read it with me?"

She shook her head, "You read it first.  After you've read it, if you want me to and you don't mind, I'd love to read it.  I'll be in the kitchen."

Nick watched her retreat down the hallway, before he turned into the living room and sunk into the sofa.  The envelope was starting to look a little tattered.  Nick had shoved the letter above his visor earlier that day, wondering if he would ever be ready to read it.  His name stood out starkly against the white paper, *Nicky Stokes*.

Sighing, he ran a finger up the inside of the envelope, and gingerly removed a couple sheets of lined paper, unfolding them as he did so.  A strange sense of nausea had creeped up on him.  It felt like he had Grissom's entire butterfly collection flying around inside his stomach.

Closing his eyes as he opened the letter, he pictured Pete in his mind as he wanted to remember him.  Big, brash and smiling – brown eyes glinting with mischief, cooking up some practical joke to play on Ford, or Nick, or any of the rest of the guys on the Narc squad.

Nick cracked open his eyes and started reading.  He swore he could hear Petey's voice.

**_Hey, Nicky._

_I think you know why I'm writing this letter. You've probably heard by now that I'm dead. _

_Of course, I never let you come and see me, so maybe you don't know. It's hell in jail, in case you couldn't figure it out. I'm in hell. I'm probably going to hell via that nice little hand basket I've woven for myself all these years. _

_Christ, Nicky. I'm like that guy who touched stuff and turned it to gold. Only everything I touch turns to shit. My marriage, my career. I can't fucking do anything right. _

_You tried, Nicky. You tried really hard to get me to turn around. You did everything I asked you to. You kept my secrets, you stuck by me when Marsha bailed and you didn't blame me. Then I turned around and put it all on you, because I couldn't see that it was all my fault. I didn't want to see. And you just let me do it. _

_Well, it wasn't your fault. You were the best friend in the entire world, and I guess I touched you and turned you into shit, too. _

_I'm sorry about that. I never should have done that to you, because I love you, man. When it was all gone, no Marsha, no job, no drugs, just me in a jail cell, you were the only one who fucking cared enough to even try to reach out to me. You never gave up on me, and I owe you for that. All those letters you wrote me, all the times you came to see me. I sent them back, sent you away. I tried to pretend like I hated you, but it was all part of the act. I didn't hate you. I needed you then more than ever, but I couldn't let you see that. I needed you to believe that it was all your fault, and you did. You were like the sacrificial lamb, offering yourself up for the slaughter to pay off my sins, but I can't let you do that anymore. I need to release you from this nightmare. I'm not your responsibility and I never was. It's time for me to face my own mistakes and deal with them._

_I've called Marsha, and she's promised to come and see me tomorrow. I want her to give this letter to you. My biggest regret is not being man enough to tell you all this to your face. Instead, I've written this stupid-ass letter, but it's the best I can do. I don't think I could face you right now anyway, and I know you sure as hell don't want to see me like this. _

_I know I've asked a lot of you, Nicky, but please do this one last thing for me. Please take care of Marsha. I'm going to commit suicide, and that means she won't get shit after I'm gone. Promise me you'll help her get the life I couldn't give her. I know you loved her, and what's worse, I know she loved you. I knew it before even you two knew it, and I still married her. I guess it was like sibling rivalry. I had something you wanted, and I got there first. I just didn't care who I was hurting anymore. I was a spoiled little boy with a pretty little toy, only you never let yourself get jealous. You just did what you always did and I hated you for that.  _

_Maybe that was why I started using.  Maybe I just wanted an excuse. Whatever it is, I'm glad I finally get to make things right. _

_But most of all, Nicky, take care of yourself. Stand strong and don't let anyone push you around. And remember that I dug my own grave. I didn't need any help from you or Marsha._

_-- Pete**_

Nick re-read the letter, tears flowing freely down his face as he imagined the despair Pete must have felt when he had written it. *Petey, I wish you had called me.  I would have come to you, man.  You were my best friend.*

He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Marty, standing to the left of the sofa he was sitting in, watching him with concern.

"I couldn't wait in the kitchen anymore."

Nick smiled through his tears, reaching out and grabbing her hand, pulling her gently onto his lap. "It's a good letter, Marty.  Read it with me."

* * * * *

Garrett Stokes slowly drove back to his hotel, replaying the events of the day in his mind – from his first disastrous interaction with his son early that morning, to the tense lunch and finally the strong hug in the driveway.  Mary had been right.  Nick was a good man – very forgiving.  Garrett felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off his chest.  He knew that they still had a long way to go, but he felt – for the first time in years – that he and Nick actually could repair their relationship.

Flipping open his cell phone, he quickly dialed Mary, smiling when she picked up the phone practically before the first ring had finished.

"You been sitting on that?" he teased gently, when he heard her rushed hello.

"Garrett – call display.  So – tell me.  How did it go?"

"I told him I was seeing a therapist.  We had – we talked, Mary, at lunch.  I'm just leaving his place now – he invited me back for dinner.  We had steak, Mary.  He called me dad.  I think…I think it will all be okay." 

"That's wonderful news."

"Yeah, it is," Garrett agreed softly, "He's a remarkable man, Mary.  I'm so – I regret so much all the years I've wasted.  I should have done this years ago.  I wish…I wish you were here, so you could see him."

"You need some time with him to work this out," Mary replied gently.  "Are you alright, sweetheart?"

"Yes.  I'm just – how have you managed to put up with me all these years?"

"Love, Garrett.  I love you."

"Can I come home when I get back to Texas.  I can't…I don't want to be without you anymore, Mary.  I want my wife back."

"I've always been here waiting for you, Garrett. When you come back to Texas, come home to me."

__________________________________

Author's Note:

Okay – one chapter left – more like an Epilogue, actually.  Maybe a chapter and an Epilogue.  Thanks so much for the reviews and the emails – y'all will never know how much I appreciate them all!  They really spur me on to write, and hopefully you'll continue to review and let me know what you like and what you don't until I finally write a masterpiece. (hee.)

A big thanks to ZHeidi, who wrote Pete's letter for me.  That was giving me an ulcer, as everything I wrote came out to 'Mich' and not enough Pete, if you know what I mean.  Thanks ZHeidi – you rock.


	14. JEN

JEN

Nick enjoyed the comfortable weight of Marty in his lap.  Pete's letter had drifted to the floor in front of the loveseat, but the words his friend had written kept scrolling through Nick's head.  It was Marty who finally broke the silence, shifting slightly sideways into Nick, wrapping her arms around his neck and kneading her fingers across the tight muscles.!!

"He was right, you know."

Nick let his head drop forward onto her shoulder to give her hands better access and sighed, "Right about what?"

"I was in love with you."

Nick sighed again, and nuzzled his face into the hollow of her neck, kissing the collarbone gently and smiling when he caught a whiff of his soap on her skin.  "I was in love with you too."

Silence for a few moments.  Marty's fingers had drifted down his shoulders, and were now massaging his forearms.  "I still love you."

"I still love you too."  His words, though quiet, were heartfelt.  "I didn't think I would ever be able to say that to you.  That's why I avoided you, back in Texas - why I never went to visit you if Pete wasn't home.  Why I didn't talk to you after you left him."

"You were being loyal to your best friend," Marty's voice was matter of fact.  "I understand, Nick.  I'm just glad -"  she paused, and her glance drifted down to the letter, "I'm glad I went to see him at the prison when he called and asked me to.  That was the first time I'd been - I hadn't seen him since the divorce."

"I wish he had called me.  I would have gone."

"It was better this way.  He knew I would look for you.  If you had gone to see him, there would have been no need for him to send me to you."

"I've felt so guilty, Marty.  You can never know - when I found out he was dead - I was so angry at him; at you - at myself.  I thought I was going to self-destruct.  And then that case we just finished - it was like the poisonous icing on the proverbial cake."

Marty was listening intently, "I caught some weird vibes from your father when he mentioned it at dinner tonight.  Want to tell me what that was all about?"

Nick sighed, "He was concerned with how the case would affect me, especially considering there was a babysitter involved."  Pause.  "This isn't something I've ever really talked about, Marty.  Dad - he came to Vegas to apologize to me."

He grinned when he said this, his smile wide.  "He wants a relationship with me, and he wanted to explain why he hasn't been there for me in the past.  You know how rocky our relationship has always been."

Marty nodded, letting her hands drift back up to his shoulders, before she settled her head against his chest again.  "I never understood why he was so hard on you."

"I think he was being harder on himself, actually.  Now that I know what was going on; how he was thinking.  He was trying to cut himself off from something that happened to me because it hurt him too much, and he ended up cutting himself off from me."

"What was it?"  Marty's voice was gentle.  She could feel Nick's sigh across the top of her head, and she added softly, "You can tell me anything, Nick.  No matter what.  Nothing will make me stop loving you."

"I know."  Nick whispered, "Let me tell you everything that's happened lately, and you'll understand why it all fits together."

* * * * *

Nick was in that hazy dream-world between full alertness and sleep, Marty curled into his side.  Her skin was so soft, Nick almost couldn't believe it belonged to a real person.  It was early, early morning.  Judging from the lack of sound outside on the street, Nick judged it to be sometime between 1:00 and 3:30 am.  He didn't ever remember being happier.

He had told Marty everything - about the case with Nick Steeply, the anger he had felt - the harsh words he had thrown at Jen Letch, the babysitter.  He explained his unremitting anger at everyone the last few days; how the shock of seeing his father standing in the lab had made him want to punch something.  And then he had told her about the time he was nine, when he had been a little boy needing his father, and how his father had told him to never tell anyone what had happened.

The words had been strangely liberating.  He had cried, of course.  He seemed to be doing that a lot lately - but this time, Marty had been there crying with him, and every tear she cried had taken away more and more of his anger and his pain, until all that was left was peace. Nick felt like things were going to be better.

When he was finished telling her all he could, she hadn't asked him questions.  She hadn't looked at him with pity.  Instead, she had slid to her feet and taken his hand, and led him to his bedroom.  Slowly, she had undressed him.  Her fingers had slid gently over his chest; his arms.  She had touched every inch of him, murmuring his name as she kissed him.  Making love with her had been like starting over - her gentle touch, the hot grip of her body around his had been a benediction.  

When it was over, she had wrapped herself around him, head burrowing into his chest and her gentle weight sinking them both deeper into his bed.  "I love you Nick," she had whispered, "I'll love you forever."

Smiling to himself, it took a few seconds for him to realize the phone was ringing. Groaning, he looked at his alarm clock before sleepily reaching over Marty and grabbing the receiver.

"Hello?"

Dead silence.  Beside him, Marty stirred and rolled over to look at him.

"Hello?  Is there someone there?"

"Hello.  Is this Mr. Stokes?"  The voice was thin and quiet.  Nick recognized it immediately.

"Is that you Jen?"

"Yes."  Silence.  Nick looked at Marty and tried to smile, but he was suddenly worried. 

"Jen, are you still there?"  He heard the sound of her breathing and a wet sniffle, and he gripped the phone tighter in his hands. "Where are you, Jen? Are you at home?"

"I'm sorry."

Nick tried to tamp down on his growing panic, trying to remain calm as he quickly stood and walked to his dresser, grabbing some underwear and a t-shirt.

"I told you it wasn't your fault, Jen - remember?"  Grabbing a pen, he scrawled Grissom's name and cell number, along with the name Jen Letch, and handed it to Marty. *Call him,* he mouthed.

Marty had no idea what was going on, but she quickly did as Nick asked.

"Where are you Jen?  Is your dad there?"  He heard the muted tones of Marty's voice as she got through to Grissom, and he reached for the cell phone.  Holding it to his ear without saying anything to Grissom, he continued talking to Jen.

"Jen - please.  Where are you?"

"I just wanted to call you and tell you thank you for trying to help me.  But you were right - Nicky is dead because of me.  It's my fault."  The girls' voice was becoming slower, and Nick knew with sudden sick certainty that she had taken pills.  "How many pills have you taken Jen?  Jen?"

On the cell phone, he heard Grissom whisper "Keep her talking, Nicky.  Keep her talking.  Sara is calling her home right now - trying to find her father."

"Jen.  Listen to me," Nick demanded.  Putting down the cell phone Grissom was on, he grabbed a pair of sweat pants and slid into them, grabbing the keys for the truck and tossing them at Marty before grabbing the cell again. "I'm coming.  Tell me where you are.  I'm coming."

Nick headed out the door, Marty on his heels.  Climbing into the passenger side of his truck, he tried to remain calm when Marty revved it up.  On his cell, Grissom murmured to him, "She's not at her house.  Sara is talking to her father right now.  He doesn't know where she is."

"Why?"  Jen was crying, soft muted sounds, "Why?"

"It wasn't your fault, Jen. You have to believe me - it was an accident.  You didn't know what would happen to him."

"He's dead.  I killed him!"

"No."

"You were right."

"No - I was wrong.  I was going through some stuff myself, and I was angry so I got mad at you.  It wasn't your fault."

"I feel like it was my fault."

"You will for a long time, Jen.  Please - tell me where you are.  Let me come and help you."

"Why?"

"Because I'm your friend."

"I don't have any friends.  Everyone hates me."

"I don't hate you.  And I'll be sad and guilty for the rest of my life if I don't find you.  Please Jen."

"I took some pills."

"I know - how many?"

"I don't know.  They were green. I'm cold."  Jen's voice was getting progressively slower.  Nick was barking directions at Marty - 'Turn left - turn right - about 5 miles this way', without even realizing where he was headed too.  

"I'm coming, sweetheart.  Keep talking to me."

But there was no further response from the girl.  "Grissom - call the paramedics."

"Where am I sending them to, Nick?"  The older man's voice was calm.  Nick looked at the houses passing by, and hollered into the phone, "Send them to the park.  We're almost at the park."  Hanging up his cell, he prayed his intuition was correct.

The yellow crime scene tape still cordoned off the sandbox.  Marty had barely slowed the truck down when Nick threw open the door and flung himself out of it.  In the far distance, he could hear sirens.

"Jen!" he hollered, "Jen!  Where are you?"

The only answer was the wind.  Marty had parked the truck and gotten out, walking quickly to his side, "Who are we looking for?"

"A girl - Nicky babysitter, the one I told you about.  God Marty -"  Nick broke off and looked at the crawl space where the body of Nick Steeply had been found just four evenings ago. Stepping over the crime scene tape, he went to the mouth of the tube and looked in, his voice echoing hollowly through the tubing when he called Jen's name.

Dropping to his knees, he hollered over his shoulder at Marty, "Go grab me the flashlight in the back cab of the truck," as he began crawling through the tubing.

The stale smell of blood still permeated the crawl space, but Nick tried to ignore it.  He had never felt so panicked in his life.  The sudden light flashing over his shoulders from the opening of the crawl space made him flinch, but in the glare he saw the still form he was looking for.

The sirens were unbearably loud.  From the other end of the crawl space, Nick could see the strobing effect the flashing lights had.  He heard a couple of muffled shouts and slamming doors.  Reaching Jen, he quickly felt for a pulse, sighing in relief when he managed to find one - thready though it was.  

The crawl space was so enclosed; he couldn't sit up in it.  Groaning in frustration, Nick managed to get his arms around the slender frame of the unconscious girl, grabbing her under the armpits and unceremoniously dragging her out of the tube.  Another door slammed, and he heard Grissom and Sara hollering his name.

An EMT gently pushed him out of the way, and Nick collapsed in the dirt beside the girl, staring at her and clutching his injured arm to his side.

"How did you know where she would be?"  Grissom was at his side, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

"I didn't," Nick replied, "I just knew this is where I would come, if I were her."  He rose slowly to his feet, and looked at the EMTs frantically working over her.  

The younger EMT must have felt his stare, because he looked up at Nick and smiled grimly, "She's still breathing.  Do you know what she took?"

"No.  Little green pills.  Has someone called her father?"

Jen was lifted easily onto the stretcher, an oxygen mask on her face, and the paramedics quickly wheeled her to the ambulance.  "We have to get her to the hospital.  We don't know what she took, so we can't risk inducing vomiting.  She needs her stomach pumped."  The younger paramedic looked at Nick again, "You coming with us?"

"Yes."  Nick looked at Grissom.  "Please - go get her dad.  Sara, would you go with Marty - show her how to get to the hospital?  I need to go with Jen."

* * * * * 

Garrett Stokes hadn't been able to fall asleep.  Lying in his bed in his hotel room, watching an endless round of infomercials, he had replayed the entire day in his head.  Nick had called him dad.  Nick had hugged him.  And Mary was taking him back.

He frowned slightly when the phone rang, his heart clutching as a dozen scenarios played out instantaneously in his mind, before he picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Dad - it's me.  Uhh- sorry to wake you.  I just wanted to let you know, I'm at the hospital and -" 

"What's wrong - is it your arm?"

Nick ran a hand through his short hair.

"No dad - I'm fine.  I'm here with a friend.  I just wanted to let you know."

Garrett turned the TV down and slowly sat up, "Do you want me to come to the hospital?"  

Nick was silent for a moment, before he whispered, "Yeah.  It's the babysitter of the little kid that was murdered.  She tried to kill herself tonight.  She called me to say goodbye.  But I found her."

"Is Marty there with you?"

"She'll be here soon.  I came in the ambulance with Jen."

"I'll be there soon.  What hospital?"

* * * * *

It was 7:30 am before a doctor finally came into emergency to tell them how Jen was.  Nick was sitting in a waiting room chair, staring intently at the door when it swung open.  To his left, Mr. Letch jumped to his feet.  

"How is she?" they both demanded at the same time.  Behind him, Marty slipped her hand into Nick's squeezing tightly.  His father stood at his other side, his hand braced steadily on Nick's shoulder.  Grissom and Sara stood slightly behind Mr. Letch, eyes concerned.

The doctor looked at Mr. Letch first, before allowing his gaze to drift over the other people in the room, allowing his eyes to finally rest on Nick.

"She's stabilized.  We pumped her stomach, and we're moving her to a private room in ICU.  You the one that found her?"

Nick nodded mutely, face inscrutable.  The doctor smiled at him, "You saved her life.  It was almost too late as it was - a couple of more minutes later, and she would be dead."

Mr. Letch staggered backwards at the doctor's words.  Nick reached out a hand to grab him, but Grissom and Sara were already there holding him up.  The older man managed to grate out, "Is she conscious?"

"She was for a few minutes.  We've sedated her.  You can go up and see her in a few minutes if you want, but don't expect much.  After you've seen her, we need to talk some more.  She's going to need to see a therapist.  We're going to need to determine if she might try this again - if she's a danger to herself or anyone else."  He smiled gently at Mr. Letch, "She's a very lucky little girl, Mr. Letch.  If it wasn't for this young man here, you would be hearing much different news."

* * * * *

The hospital room was quiet when Nick walked in to visit Jen later that afternoon.  He had brought a bouquet of flowers for her, and a stuffed white teddy bear with angel wings.  She was lying listlessly in her bed when he walked in, her hand hanging limply in her fathers.

"Hi, Jen.  Mr. Letch."

The older man smiled at him wearily, before patting Jen's hand absently with his free hand.  "Nick."

Nick turned to Jen, "I brought you some flowers.  And this teddy bear - when I saw it, I knew I had to get it for you."

Jen looked at the bear before looking at Nick sadly.  Her face was impossibly pale.  The hospital still had her hooked up to oxygen, and the hissing of the machine was the only real noise in her room.  Her eyes looked impossibly bruised.

"I ran into the doctor out in the hallway.  He says you're doing quite well.  He says you'll be back on your feet in no time."

Jen just blinked at him.  Nick looked at Mr. Letch questioningly, but the older man shook his head.  "She won't talk to anyone."

Nick nodded, and turned back to Jen.  "I can understand that.  Sometimes it hurts too much to talk.  Are you angry that I found you?"

Jen shut her eyes, and turned her face into her pillow.

"I'm happy that I found you.  You see, Jen -" Nick pulled up a chair and sat opposite her father, "I'm just starting to get my feet back underneath me, and if you had managed to kill yourself, I don't know what I would have done.  I can't take guilt like that anymore.  I should never have spoken to you the way I did the night I found Nicky Steeply's body in the park.  I aplogize."

"I should be dead," Jen quietly rasped out.  "I wanted to die."

"No you didn't." Nick replied gently.  "If you wanted to die, you wouldn't have called me.  You would have just let the pills take you.  No one ever wants to die, Jen."

"But -"

"I know you might not believe me, but things will get better.  You need to get past this.  You need to talk to people - see a psychiatrist.  Talk to your dad.  Talk to me, if you want.  Because this isn't your fault.  You made a mistake, but people make mistakes every day.  You need to take this and learn to live with it."

"How can I?"  Jen's voice was a plea, "How can I?"

Nick shrugged, "One day at a time.  Listen, I'm here to make you a deal.  When you're feeling up to it, I want to talk to you.  I want to tell you about my best friend, Petey.  I want to explain to you why I know you'll survive the guilt.  You can get over this, Jen.  Your dad will help you.  And I'll help you."

Jen turned her face back to look at him.  "Why do you want to help me?"

Nick smiled gently, "Because I owe it to you, and I owe it to Petey - and I owe it to me."

* * * * *

Garrett hugged Nick tightly.  "Don't be a stranger," he whispered gruffly, before turning to Marsha and hugging her just as fiercely.

Nick smiled, "I won't be, dad.  Not anymore.  Safe flight home.  Give mom a kiss and a hug for me."

"Will do,"  Garrett turned back to Nick, smiling.  "I'm proud of you, son.  You're a better man than I ever was."

"I'm glad you came to see me, dad.  Maybe next time, you can bring mom with you."

Garrett smiled, "She'd love that.  Let me know how things work out for Jen.  She's still allowed to go home today?"

Nick nodded.  "We're heading there after the plane leaves.  We're having a welcome home party for her."

Garrett smiled.  "I can't believe I've been here a week already.  Time flies."

Marsha grinned, "Only when you don't want it to.  Have a good flight home, Garrett."

"Take care of Nick for me, Marty."

"I will."

________________________

Author's Notes:

Next chapter is the last,  and it's really more of an epilogue.  Please R&R – let me know what you think.  I'm debating doing a second story as a follow-up to this one, if the interest is there.


	15. INVITATIONS

EPILOGUE - INVITATIONS

"Are you sure you're alright, Nicky?"  Marty asked quietly, sneaking her hand into his a gripping it tightly.  Behind her, Grissom, Sara, Greg, Warrick, Catherine – even Brass was there - patiently waiting for Nick to begin.

The slight breeze coming from Lake Mead was refreshing.  Nick looked at Marty and smiled.  "I'm fine."

They had just arrived back from Texas that morning.  Grissom had given Nick a few days off to help Marty move, and they had flown to Texas to pack her stuff and driven back to Nevada in her SUV.  It was still sitting in his driveway, the U-Haul attachment only half unloaded.

The night after Jen Letch's suicide attempt, Nick had gone to work and told his friends everything.  "I just want you to understand why I've been so – miserable – to be around the last week.  It was just getting to be too much, and I wasn't handling the pressure very well. I'm sorry for the worry I've caused you."

Catherine, who had known about the babysitter, had been the only one besides Grissom who hadn't been taken aback by Nick's personal revelations.  Sara, Warrick and Greg had been devastated for their friend.

"I'm surprised you handled it as well as you did," Warrick muttered after Nick had finished talking.

Nick shrugged, "My mother always said that God never gives you more than you can handle.  But I thought for a while there I was losing control.  I would have, if it wasn't for Marty and my father.  And Grissom."

Grissom smiled uncomfortably when everyone turned to look at him.  "I didn't do anything."

"Yes, you did," Nick inserted.  "You listened to me.  You gave me a chance to correct some of the mistakes I made. You decided to trust me on the Steeply case, despite the reasons I had already given you not to.  You did a lot, Grissom."

"No more than you deserved," Grissom replied.  But he smiled at the younger man, and he and Nick worked that nights' case together, both men happier than they had been in a long time.

And now, here they all were, supporting Nick once again as he said his final goodbyes to his best friend.  He and Marty had made arrangements for Pete to be cremated, and they had picked up his ashes on their drive home.  No one else had cared to claim the body.  Marty had no idea where Petey's mother was, if she was even still alive; the only family he really had left had been her – his ex-wife – and Nick – his once ex-best friend.

Turning to look at his friends, Nick felt his chest tighten.  He had thought, deep down in the part of himself that he had kept hidden from the world, that he was broken. Unlovable and unloved.  He didn't think that anymore.

Clearing his throat, Nick began, "I really want to thank you all for coming out here with us today.  It means a lot to Marty and me.  I know I've already told you a lot about Petey, so I hope you feel some connection to him.  He was a good guy who got sucked into a bad situation and just couldn't control it.  I tried to help him.  Marty tried to help him.  But Petey, for whatever reason, couldn't help himself."  

He looked down at the urn in his hands, before looking at his friends again, meeting their gazes.  Sara's brown eyes were serious; Catherine's blue eyes full of motherly concern.  Warrick, Greg and Brass smiled encouragingly when his gaze drifted over them.  And Grissom, blue eyes intent, nodded his head. *We're all here for you, Nicky.*

Turning to Marsha, he held out the urn to her and smiled when she lifted the top off.  Together, they slowly poured Pete's ashes out over the water.  

"You're free, Petey.  No more bars.  No more drugs.  Just the wind and the waters to carry you wherever you want to go."

His friends stepped closer, surrounding him and supporting him.  Beside him, Marty whispered just loud enough for Nick to hear, "Thank you for giving me Nick."

Nick watched as the water eddied and rippled around the ashes, before the water absorbed them.  To his left, he felt Grissom reach out and grip his elbow, "Ripples, Nicky.  Ripples and stones."

Nick turned to smile at the older man, nodding his head in agreement, "Ripples and stones, Grissom."

* * * * *

They had all gone back to Nick and Marty's house for a BBQ afterwards.  After years of being apart, they had decided it was time to change all that.  While they had both agreed that it was too soon to talk marriage, they had been fairly certain that's where they would eventually end up. For now, though, they would live together - working through the last vestiges of the guilt they still felt.  
Warrick and Greg had quickly helped unload the last of Marty's stuff from the U-Haul when they arrived back at their place; taking the majority of Marty's things into the spare bedroom until they could figure out where to put them. Marty had insisted on putting only one item out right away – a framed picture of Nick and Petey - similar to the one Nick had kept for so long in his old cigar box.

The two of them had been wearing baseball uniforms, and Marty had snapped the picture at the Police's annual charity baseball tournament the year she and Pete had first met.  Nick had been standing beside Petey, his arm thrown across his shoulder, both men laughing into the camera.

Nick watched her as she carefully placed it in a prominent position with the rest of the family pictures that had made their way onto his mantle over the last week.

"You sure it's alright if I put this out?"

"Yeah.  I'm ready.  I can face him every day now,"  Nick walked over to Marty's side and looked at the picture.  His hair was longer, in the frat boy cut Petey had always ragged him about.  "I don't remember ever being that young."

His gaze slid from the picture of Pete to one of his parents.  His father had sent it to him just the other day via courier; happier than he had been able to admit that Nick had asked for it.  He had also sent Nick a blown up copy of the picture of the two of them taken that long ago summer when they had gone camping.

He had called Nick on his cell the evening the package had arrived.  "Did you get the pictures?"

"Yeah, Dad.  I got them," Nick had smiled.  "They're on my mantle at home."

"Both of them?"  Garrett had spoken softly.

"Both of them," Nick affirmed.  "So – what did mom say about you two coming down to Las Vegas for Thanksgiving this year?"  

"She thinks that's a great idea, Nicky.  She's already booked the plane tickets.  And don't be surprised if the rest of the family decides to come down too.  None of your sisters want to miss a family Thanksgiving, and if we left Victor here to fend for himself with no turkey on Thanksgiving day, who knows what would happen."

Nick had laughed, "The more the merrier.  I'm really glad you're coming dad."

"I am too, son."

"Wow, Nick.  Is that your dad?"  Catherine's voice intruded on his thoughts, breaking Nick out of his reverie.  Nick looked at her and smiled.

"Yeah.  That's him."

"You look alike."

"So people are always telling me," Nick agreed.  Catherine reached out and lifted the picture of him and Petey. 

"And this is Petey," turning, Catherine handed the frame to Sara, who had come in behind her followed by the other men.  "First time I've seen him.  He looks like I expected."

Nick wrapped an arm around Marty, and smiled at his friends, "You would have liked him, if you had known him before the drugs.  He was a great friend."

"It takes one to know one," Sara murmured, smiling at Nick as she handed him back the picture.  

Greg added, "Love the hair – you look like the king of white bread in this picture."

Everyone laughed, and Nick shook his head ruefully as he carefully placed the photo back on the mantle.  "Listen, I wanted to ask you early, before you all made plans or anything.  My family is coming for Thanksgiving and…"

"Thanksgiving!"  Sara interrupted, teasingly,  "That's three months away!  I can't believe you're already angling for the time off."

Nick grinned, "Actually, I'm not.  We'll work out time off when the time comes.  What I was going to say is – my family is coming down for Thanksgiving.  I would really – it would mean a lot to me – if you would all join us.  I'd really like for my _families" Nick stressed the word as looked at his friends, "to be together for Thanksgiving this year."_

His invitation was met by momentarily silence.  Grissom broke it first, stepping forward and smiling, speaking for all of them when he answered, "We'd love to come Nicky."

____________________

Author's Note:

Okay – this was a long story.  It wasn't supposed to be – I just got thinking about Nick's background one day, certain knowledge that he had – and voila! This is what spewed forth.

A big, big thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this.  It means a lot to me to get feedback, and I really do take everything to heart.  I hope this story hasn't disappointed – I'm sort of sad to see it end – I'm enjoying Marty and Garrett.  Maybe I'll do a sequel one day.  If I ever finish everything else I'm working on!

Lastly – thanks to ZHeidi again – for Petey's letter, and the suggestions and the last minute proof reading. 


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